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LYRICAL RECREATIONS. 



l ti 






griral sKecrcatiottB, 



SAMUEL WARD. 



Je vous donne avecque ma foy 
Ce qu'il y a de mieulx en moy. 

Old French Love Song. 




IX m Pork ant) Condon : 

D. APPLETON & CO., 
BOSTON : ROBERTS BROTHERS. 



1865. 



W 



3 




iy. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by 

SAMUEL WARD, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 

Southern District of iN"ew York. 



X V 



I 



JOHN F. TROW, 

Printer, Stereottper, and Electrotyper, 

50 Greene Street, New York. 



Henry Hall Ward, 

Treasurer of the Neuu York State Society of the Cincinnati, 

PRESIDENT OF THE NEW^YORK CLUB, 

FAMILIAE CAPITI, 

TRUE GENTLEMAN, KINSMAN, 

AND FRIEND. 



c 



ONTENTS. 



Preface, . . . ... xi 

The King of the Troubadours, . . 3 

Friar-Life, . . „ ' . 10 

Time the Auctioneer, . . . 16 

The Glass-Blower, . . . 19 

The Monitor, . . . . 22 

Panacea, .' . . . .24 

Mont auk Light, . . . . 26 

Hymn to Mars, . . . .31 

The Maiden's Children, . . . 35 

The Incomplete Picture, . . .40 

The Tree and the Shadow, . . 43 

Fruition, . . ... .49 

Leaves and Stars, . . . . 52 

October Lay, . . . . . - 54 

Song of the Wren, . . . . 58 

Falconry, . . . . .62 

The Poet's Acre, . . . . 71 

To Alfred Tennyson, . . . -74 



Contents. 



Epimekides, 

Waking Dream, . 

Orchard Fantasia, 

Give me Joy, 

Ziska, 

Metempsychosis . 

The Wise Maiden, 

The Old Rope, . 

The Two Mirrors, 

The Hebrew Alphabet, 

The Old Teacher, 

The Tryst, 

Palmistry, 

Minstrelsy, 

porrigo dextram, 

Not Wine Alone 

The Ruby Goblet, 

Bohemian Song, . 

Waltz, 

Mazurka, 

contradanza, 

The Blind Fiddler, 

New Music, . 

Stradivarius, 

Ignes Fatui, . 

Dawn at Midnight, 

The Charge . 

The Moon and the Beacon, 



Lontents. 


IX 




PAGE 


La Chocolatiere, 


I8 4 


Dolores, 


. 186 


Titian to Stella, 


188 


At Last, 


• '9° 


Enfin, . . . 


191 


Still, .... 


. I96 


The Mariner's Betrothed, 


198 


Man Overboard, . 


200 


Catechism, 


201 


Metathalamium, 


. 206 


Zampita, . . . . 


208 


By the Coffin, . 


. 213 


To the Poet of Farringford, 


215 


Modern Faith, 


. 219 


In Fifth Avenue, 


224 


Tom's Funeral, . 


229 


A Royal Abode, 


2 35 


Beckford, 


. 238 


To a Well-known Camellia,. 


241 


Medieval Art, . 


. 243 


Modern Sketching, . 


245 


Isaac, .... 


• 2 49 


Lost and Found, 


251 


The Widow of Worcester, 


. 258 


Hiram Augustus Cranston, . 


262 


Penultimate, 


. 264 


Sub Tegmine Fagi, 


266 


The Poet's Voice, 


. 270 




^^^0^^^ 



©o Jftumtri fj£, PL §mte 



Afy D^zr Barlow : 

IMi^#HEN a bachelor, over-ripe, takes 
~ J - ^H to himfelf a wife in the bud, he 
| t ^l4 ipg^ i s a pt to imagine that he owes 
his friends fome explanations. It is the 
privilege of youth to woo Euterpe,, and my 
hair is gray. §>ui J % 'exciife /' ' accufe^ — I know; 
but, when the accufation is fure to come, the 
excufe may as well get the ftart of it ; and 
turning rhymeiler as I do on the wrong fide 
of half a century, I venture to entreat you, 
who bear all burdens fo lightly, to circulate 
my apologia among thofe who may care to 
hear it. 



xii Preface, 

You, at lean 1 , remember that I cc took " 
the lyrical fever in the fpring of i860, "in 
the natural way," as unconfcioufly as Pierre 
and Elfie caught the meafles, and almoft 
as fatally as our people have taken the 
gold-fever. In mining parlance, the difcov- 
ery of this unfufpected "pocket" of verfe 
afforded me equal pleafure and furprife. It 
is true that the bonanza barely "held out" 
two years, and then cc fplit up into horfes." 
But all veins, alas ! too often cc peter out," 
and if mine be, perchance, proven a Maripofa, 
there are no other ftockholders to be caught 
by the collapfe. 

But I little dreamed, when your partiality 
was commending my early couplets, and your 
good tafle criticifing their defects, that I should 
not be quit of the malady until it should have 
thrown off as many lyrics as the appointed 
years of man ; frill lefs that, after keeping 
them three years, inftead of the Horatian 
nine, I mould have the temerity to publifh 
them. 

With my gratitude for your encouraging 



Preface, xiii 

readinefs to fhare the rifk and onus of giving 
flight to thefe fledglings, arifes the regret that 
I cannot guarantee you againft such difap- 
pointment as the "manager" in the Poftillon 
de Lonjumeau would have felt, had his way- 
fide tenor made a fiafco ; — one muft sing loud 
to be heard amid the roar of cannon. At 
leaft, however, I can promife to behave lefs 
fhabbily than Don Giovanni when he makes orT 
after his "serenade," and devolves the remain- 
der drubbing from his own to the fhoulders 
of Leporello. And this the more readily, 
that if a man is justly held to greater care in* 
diftilling the verfes he offers to the public, 
than in preparing any other eflence of the 
brain, the true ftandards of fuccefs in this art 
are fo high that none but a coxcomb need be 
greatly caft down by falling fhort of them. 

I am forry to own my inability to work 
out more extenfively your fuggeftion about 
the naturalization of the Horatian measures. 
Some faint imitation of them I have, indeed, 
attempted in cc The Tree and the Shadow," 
cc The Chocolatitre" and " Zampita." But, 



xiv Preface. 

fince 1800 years have failed to produce a fec- 
ond Horace — and as many more may elapfe 
before the appearance of another Beranger — 
I may furely be pardoned for believing that 
it was eafier for the Sabine bard, 

" Princeps Solium Carmen ad Italos 
Deduxiffe modos," 

than for any one to adapt them to 

" Our harfh Northern, whittling, grunting guttural, 
Which we "re obliged to hifs and fpit and fputter all." 

Under favor of the great mafters juft cited, 
I have, here and there, infcribed a lyric to fome 
one of thofe whofe friendly lamps have lighted 
me through the dark, when, like the foolifh 
virgins, I had fuffered my oil to burn to 
wafte. Inviting a party of friends to assist at 
the launch of a floop, and then carrying them 
to fea againfh their will, is, perhaps, sharp 
practice : but, should the frail craft founder, 
they muft remember, with good Sir Hum- 
phrey Gilbert, that " Heaven is as near by 
fea as by land; " while if the cruife terminates 






Preface. xv 

in the "Fortunate Ifles 3 " they will, perhaps, 
thank me for a pleafant epifode in the Voyage 
of Life, and I ihall be overpaid, 

Printing is the coftume of Poetry ; as 
Hood ufed to fay: "tells the flory." You 
will find one long piece, " Epimenides " (the 
Cretan Rip-Van-Winkle), which I fhould 
fcarcely have ventured to dedicate to our 
eminently cryflal-minded friend, Mr, Charles 
O* Conor, in the fomewhat cloudy and indefi- 
nite fhape it now -wears, had I firfi feen it in 
the undeceptive daylight of type. It was in- 
tended to exprefs the natural reflections of a 
wanderer, long abfent from his quiet village- 
home, who returns to find it one roar of fpin- 
dles ; and if it fail to produce a correfpond- 
ing irnprerlion upon the mind of the reader, 
I can only fay, like Madame de Pompadour 
to the country beauty, who gawked and Hum- 
bled in her unaccuflomed court-drefs, when 
entering the prefence of the king, cc it is too 
late to retreat," 

Like Dr. Newman's "Apology for his 
Life," this apologetic preface has grown un- 



xvi Preface, 

der my pen till itfelf needs too an apology. 
That — your generous friendship must make 
for it — and for me. Hide this little book 
among the pricelefs treafures of your library 
— a piper of Hamelin's coffin among the 
golden farcophagi of kings — and remember 
only, that in it 

"Je vous donne avecque ma foy 
Ce qu'il y a de mieulx en moy." 



s. w. 



New York Hotel, 

January 2.7th, 1865. 







WHEN in my walks I meet some ruddy lad — 
Or swarthy man — with tray-beladen head, 
Whose smile entreats me, or his visage sad, 
To buy the images he moulds for bread, 



I think that, though his poor Greek Slave in chains, 
His Venus and her Boy with plaster dart, 

Be, like the Organ-Grinder's quavering strains, 
But farthings in the currency of art; 



Such coins a kingly effigy still wear — 

Let metals base or precious in' them mix — 

The painted vellum hallows not the Prayer, 
Nor ivory nor gold the Crucifix. 



•£abe nun, act)! sPfctfofo^te, 
Surijterei unb SJtebictn, 
Unb leiberaud) 5lt)eo(cgie 
SuriauS jtubtrt, tnit fyeitsem Semitljn. 
Xa ft el) 1 id) nun, id) armer Zfyotl 
Unb bin fo Hug aU rcie juuor. 

I have, alas ! Philosophy, 

Juristery and Medicine, 

And, woe is me ! Theology, 

At length dug through with study keen, 

And stand here now a fool as poor 

In wealth and wisdom as before ! 

Faust. 






Tb Henry W. Longfellow. 



Q\)t ling of th,e ^roubaooure. 

Rene, King of Provence, when he felt his sceptre 

glide away, 
Called upon his minstrels many, each to sing a 

parting lay : 
" Song is but Prayer set to music, therefore 

pray for me, good friends, 
Not because my waning power scarce beyond 

these walls extends — 
But that, with my poor dominion, taketh flight 

the modest hoard 
Which enabled me to welcome Art's dear children 

roimd my board." 



t THE KING OF THE TROUBADOURS. 

Then, in turn their rebecs sweeping, minstrel 
after minstrel sang, 

Till, with wailing and with weeping, all the sad- 
dened echoes rang, 

Rang a quire of grief lamenting the dispersion 
of that band 

Thenceforth desolate as butterflies when storms 
assail the land. 

When the last his virelay ended, sobs sighed 
chorus in the hall 

As the King, with arms extended, waved a bless- 
ing over all. 



Then, as glows the westering sun within a cloud 
of fleecy white, 

Beamed his visage, 'mid its silvery locks, with in- 
spiration's light, 

As he grasped his crusty viol, woke to life its 
every wire, 

Till the notes flew out like sparks when yields 
the smitten steel its fire ; 



THE KING OF THE TROUBADOURS. 5 

Sparks that set his aged voice ablaze, until it 

towered high 
As a swan's whose folded pinions never more 

shall cleave the sky. 



" We have all been too long dreaming ; from our 

dreams we now awake. 
Sorrow teaches us God's meaning ; thankfully the 

lesson take. 
Man was not made for inaction midst the dal- 
liances of life, 
But to labor for His glory who hath led him 

through its strife. 
He decrees that you shall sing your way through 

castle, dorp, and mart, 
Leaving me to spend my lonely days in culture 

of our Art ; 
For, though Charles the Bold and Louis have 

despoiled the monarch's throne, 
This poor viol, which they scorned to seize, is still 

the minstrel's own, 



» THE KING OF THE TROUBADOURS. 

And may prove a sceptre that shall wield a more 

enduring sway 
Than his reign which, like a bird of passage, 

vanished in a day. 



" What surviveth of the glory of King David's 

crown and sword, 
But the Psalms that Monarch hoary sang in 

honor of the Lord ? 
Are not Orpheus, Anacreon, and the Sightless 

Bard of Troy 
As immortal as Achilles who made war his only 

joy? 

When the eagle drops a feather, 'tis divided, 
and one end 

Plumes the arrow of the bow that needs Ulysses' 
arm to bend ; 

While the other is the Poet's pen, to ages hand- 
ing down 

Valiant deeds embalmed by measure in the 
amber of renown. 



THE KIN"G OF THE TROUBADOURS. 7 

" Go, then, forth and preach the Gospel of the 

Lyre in every land, 
Softening men with its sweet teachings by the 

voice and by the hand. 
Let each one, in his vocation, found a kingdom 

of his own 
In the People's hearts, which — not his court — 

sustain a monarch's throne. 



" Sing the praise of Him who made you, and of all 
that He hath made ; 

Sing the charms of woman ; sing the terrors of the 
warrior's blade, 

Till, its silk to gold transumed, the thread of song 
become a chain, 

Leading men up to the gates of death as in a 
wedding train ; 

And I hear rude Northern wanderers troll, be- 
fore my gate, the lays 

Sung by Rene and his Trouveres in their young 
and happy days." 



8 THE KING OF THE TROUBADOURS. 

Like the leaves that skirt the forest, when they 

droop with April's rain, 
Hung the minstrels' tearful eyelids when the king 

intoned his strain. 
Like those leaves, when clouds disperse before 

the charge of Heaven's patrol, 
Caught their lifted lids the sunshine of the king's 

undaunted soul. 
When he ceased, as murmur wind-swept pines, 

their voices woke the air 
With a chaunt in which a jubilee gleamed 

through deep chords of prayer. 
Then, with souls cheered by his benison, they 

left him one by one, 
And, at even, in his banquet-hall King Rene sat 

alone. 



Since that day on which those Trouveres left 
their crownless King forlorn, 

Full four hundred times have holy chimes rung 
in the Christmas morn. 



THE KING OF THE TKOUBADOUKS. 9 

Who shall say how many a lay, of church and 

feast and dance and song, 
Is an echo of the voices of that poor disbanded 

throng ? 
As I sing I hear them ringing through the caverns 

of the Past, 
And my feeble breath but wafts some minstrel's 

cadence down the blast. 




1* 



To John T. Doyle. 



iriat-£ife. 



Semi-rigid, half-elastic, 

Was the pious, old monastic 

Scheme of life ; 
When the lenten bread of Heaven 
With a dash of human leaven 

Aye was rife. 



Through dark ages, they kept burning 
The forbidden lamps of learning 

In their cells ; 
As, in Afric's sands, the rover, 
With protecting stones, doth cover 

The glad wells. 



FRIAR-LIFE. 11 

And, with extacy, the stainless 
Mother loved they, who, in painless 

Travail, bore 
Him whose birth and crucifixion 
Loosed the bonds of our affliction 

Evermore. 



Lordly herds, on meadows, thriving 
Under vineyards, they, by shriving 

Sinners, got. 
Pious hinds their wealth augmented, 
And their broad lands tilled, contented 

With their lot. 



That the Friars worldly pleasure, 
In their lay-days, without measure 

Had enjoyed, 
And discovered that the madness 
Of the revel's sinful gladness 

Left a void, 



12 FKIAR-LIFE. 

Taught them that the peasant's toil 
On the mute, but grateful, soil 

Is a fate 
Happier than their wild ambition, 
Who aspire unto Patrician 

Ponrp and state. 



And the monk, so old and shabby, 
Seemed the image of his Abbey, 

Gray and hoary : 
Winter's rudest blasts defying, 
With its inward and undying 

Warmth of glory. 



Chimed the convent-bell a marriage ? 
He uncoifed his austere carriage, 

And was mortal ; 
As, with benediction saintly, 
Ushered he the fond ones quaintly 

Through hope's portal. 



FKIAK-LIFE. 13 

But a sad yet tender riot 
Sometimes thrilled his pulse's quiet 

With strange charms, 
When the holy-water glistened 
On the new-born infant, christened 

In his arms. 



And you saw each waxen finger 
With unconscious twitchings linger 

Round the boy ; 
As though yearnings, pent and hidden, 
Cried within, for the forbidden 

Human joy. 



And his eyes, through fond mists glowing, 
Saw the babe in stature growing, 

Till the day 
When himself its soul might foster, 
And, with creed and Pater^ioster, 

Point the way. 



14- FKIAR-LIFE. 

Like the glass a sigh hath clouded, 
Brighter shone his gaze when, crowded 

Near the font, 
He beheld God's children pressing, 
And bestowed a warmer blessing 

Than his wont. 



Called the death-bell's lingering, knelling 
Prince or peasant from life's dwelling 

To depart? 
By those Heaven-sent stewards shriven, 
Who the imps of sin had driven 

From his heart, 



Each a message, when he kissed him, 
Whispered softly and dismissed him 

On glad wing ; 
Like the bark that carries tidings 
From a Viceroy's distant 'hidings 

To his King. 



FRIAR-LIFE, 

Fiercely they rebuked the scorner, 
Tearfully consoled the mourner 

In his sorrow ; 
Eyes, all moist to-day with sadness, 
Shone serene midst festive gladness 

On the morrow. 



Thus abroad, with zeal unending, 
Rich and poor alike befriending, 

Lived the Friars : 
Vigil, fast, and flagellations 
Mortified the world's temptations 

And desires. 



And when waxed a poor monk paler, 
Until granted him Life's gaoler 

His release, 
Earth's sad stewardship resigning, 
Homeward flew his spirit, pining, — 

Into peace, 



15 



T<? Joseph G. Cogswell. 



®ime if)e Auctioneer* 

Stands the clock within the hall, 
Like a monk against the wall, 
Like a hooded monk with eyes 
Owl-like, spectral, solemn, wise, 
In w r hose sockets, moon and sun 
Mimic phase and season run ; 
While, beneath the face austere, 

" Going ! Gone ! Going ! Gone ! " 
Time, the ruthless Auctioneer, 

Sells the moments one by one ; 
Moments all too cheaply sold ! 
Save to Love, for lavished gold ! 
Save to crime, with dagger bold ! 



TIME THE AUCTIONEER. 1*7 

Four and twenty times a day 
Step the Morrice-dancers gay, 
From their tire-room in the clock, 
At the hour's impatient knock ; 
Wind in courteous rigadoou, 
Wind in cadence with the tune, 
Vanish with its blithesome strain, 

" Going ! Gone ! Going ! Gone ! " 
Time his hammer raps again. 

Hark ! A groan ! Hark ! A groan ! 
Groan for that bright hour just past, 
Breathed by one would hold it fast, 
For the next shall be his last ! 

Through the western oriel fall 
Sunset glories in the hall. 
Thus at eve they ever pour 
Kainbowed rapture on the floor. 
Now the Virgin's lips are pressed 
On yon cherub's sculptured rest, 
Now ascends a crimson stain 
From the storied window-pane, 



18 



TIME THE AUCTIONEER. 



Till the light of evening skies 
Glimmers in those sleepless eyes. 
Drink, poor monk, the lingering rays, 

" Going ! Gone ! Going ! Gone ! ' 
Brief their lustre ! Brief thy gaze 

On the sun ! Day is done ! 

Pensive, in the twilight hour, 
Sits the maiden in her bower ; 
Broods the felon in his tower. 
One — the noon a bride shall see ! 
One — at noon shall cease to be ! 




<£f)e <B[a5S~Momx. 

From chaos, with creative hand 
And fiery breath and magic wand, 
I saw an artisan expand 

And mould a crystal earth, 
Where Plain and Hill and Sea and Isle 
Were blended in the sunny smile 

That saw our Planet's birth. 



Where trees sprang up, whose foliage, dyed 

Unfadingly in Summer's pride, 

Rude Autumn's withering breath defied, 

And Winter's icy blasts ; 
And ships, becalmed on wrinkled seas, 
Though full their sails, felt not the breeze 

That bent their tapering masts. 



20 THE GLASS-BLOWEE. 

A city rose upon the shore 
And, on its quay, the stevedore 
Awaited to unload and store 

That spell-bound navy's freight ; 
While on the scaffold felons stood, 
Unhanged above the multitude, 

Before the prison -gate. 



In gardens of ungathered fruit, 

Young lovers sat whose tongues were mute, 

Nor breathed its spell the anxious lute 

Within the maiden's hands ; 
They smiled, in bliss without regret, 
As only they who feel not yet 

The altar's silken strands. 



And when the adept's task was done, 
I saw the boy, for whom was spun 
That globe, its beauties, one by one, 
With childish ardor greet ; 



THE GLASS-BLOWEE. 21 

Then clutch it with such eager grip 
That mountain, city, tree, and ship 
Fell shivered at his feet. 



And thought — when down shall shade his chin, 

And Fancy mould a world akin 

To that bright Earth, unstain'd by sin, 

The adept's fingers wrought — 
He'll clutch and lose it, as a boy, 
The bubbles which he saw with joy 

In rainbow meshes caught. 



Yet, when his disenchanted eyes 
Shall cease to see the mirage rise, 
Between him and the desert's skies, 

Above the phantom wave, 
He'll halt and kneel and cross his hands,- 
Nor long the Simoon's shifting sands 

Will mark the new-made grave ! 



&l)e Monitor. 



A miser joined a funeral train, 

With flinty eye, 
And thought, " Yon wretch, whose every vein 
I drained till naught was left to gain, 

Did well to die." 

He passed the cypress-sentried gate 

With footstep firm ; 
Nay, lighter trod, because elate 
' That his was not the lonely fate 
Of that poor worm." 

He stood the yawning grave beside, 

All undismayed, 
While Delver and Sacristan vied 
Which first the coffin's lid should hide 

With eager spade. 



THE MONITOE. 23 

Then, homeward sauntering, he passed 

His father's tomb, 
And felt his pulses throbbing fast, 
In memory of his joy when last 

He, through its gloom, 

Saw glittering the radiant hoard, 

His lifelong lust, 
Forgetful that, though now its lord, 
He soon must by his sire be stored, 

And waste to dust. 

But when, at home, to meet him, stole 

The meek-faced lad 
Into whose lap must one day roll 
The wealth for which he'd pawned his soul, 

His brow grew sad. 



flJcmctcea. 



When skies are gray, and droops my mateless heart 

Within this attic drear, 
I wander forth into the restless mart, 
Through labor's busy sphere, 
Or thread the moist and dismal lanes, 
Where poverty reveals its pains. 

My wind-swept garret then a palace seems, 

A tropic sun my fire — 
My books a mine of bliss, while cheerly steams 

The kettle's soothing quire. 
My toast is made, my tea is brewed 



PANACEA. 25 

Whilst I, comparing mine with sadder stars, 

Thus magnify its light, 
Which seems to those encaged by misery's bars 
With happiest lustre bright ; 
The lot of captive, drudge, or slave 
Is brighter far, beside the grave, 

Than mine, compared with that by them deplored, 

Or than the grander fate 
Of Croesus, revelling amidst his hoard, 
A king without a state — 
Though, for his standard, taketh he 
The measure of my poverty. 




Jttontcmk £tgl)t. 

LATITUDE 41° 4' 12" N. LONGITUDE 71° 51' 54" W. 

Before the stars appear on high, 
I open wide my Cyclops eye, 

Like them unseen by day ; 
Though, while they roll in distant realms 
My vacant face still guides the helms 

That o'er the waters stray. 



The only living things I view, 

At times, are cormorant and mew ; 

Yet, from my stage-box grand, 
I watch the drama of the skies, 
And hear, through awful symphonies, 

The Storm-Kin p- lead his band. 



MONT AUK LIGHT. 27 

When clouds obscure the starry host, 
My smile beams brighter on the tost 

And storm-imperilled ships ; 
While rock-cleft surges shoreward hie, 
Like troubled souls whose bodies lie 

Where yon horizon dips. 



Then booms the signal-gun its prayer, 
And counts, with pulse of wild despair, 

The moments that remain 
To those upon some bark forlore, 
Ere from its wreck their souls shall soar 

Beyond the hurricane. 



The dawning day uncurtains night. 
As on a plain where fierce in fight 

At eve men charged and fell — 
The slain, amid bale, plank, and spar, — 
Though undefaced by bruise or scar, — 

The Tempest's victory tell, 



28 MONTATJK LIGHT. 

On serpent waves, that languidly 
Unroll their coils along the sea, 

With victims satiate, 
Until to sharp resentment urged, 
By jutting points of rocks submerged, 

Their dripping jaws dilate. 



Yet as to Shakespeare, so to me, 
Thaleia and Melpomene 

Alternate come and go ; 
Once more flits by the merry fleet 
Of barks, as in a royal street 

The chariots to and fro. 



The full-plumed ship, the wingless car 
That, shuttle-like, to strands afar 

Bears that bright thread of gold 
Which weaves, with human sympathy, 
Between the warps of sea and sky, 

The New World to the Old. 



MONTATTK LIGHT. 29 

And I survive the barks that ply 
Above the wrecks and crews that lie 

Beneath the glutton wave, 
As stately cenotaphs outlive 
The mourners who have met to grieve 

Around a new-made grave. 



The cross, upon the only fane 

That decks some lone and dreary plain, 

Sees not the temples fair 
Which, stretching in a zone sublime, 
Take up, in turn, its belfry's chime 

And girt the earth with prayer : 



"Nov I, adown the seaboard line, 
My giant kin, with eyes benign, 

On keys and headlands ramp ; 
Like pickets posted on the shore, 
Where quicksands lurk and breakers roar, 

Before the Atlantic camp. 



30 MONTATJK LIGHT. 

As when a father shares his gold, 
The sun, ere day's last knell is tolled, 

Confides to each a ray, 
And, like a captain, when the word 
And pass at change of guard are heard, 

He bids us watch till day, 



And scan the Orient wilderness, 
Until the Baptist star shall bless 

Our strained and weary sight, 
Above the dawn's first timid streak 
Ere blushes dye its pallid cheek 

For all the sins of night. 




fgmn to ilTar0. 

Since ages dim in deathless sleep, 
As knights in bronze sepulchral keep 

O'er tombs their silent guard, 
Thy lone watch thou, with stately pace, 
Hast measured in creation's race, 

Mars with the golden beard ! 



But brighter glows thy ruddy eye, 

When Heav'n's grand minuet brings thee nigh * 

To Earth whilom endeared : 
And, o'er thy fiery cheek, a smile 
Of happy dreams doth play the while, 

Mars with the golden beard ! 



* Written in June, 1860, when Mars, in his perigee, had 
shortened his greatest distance from the earth some forty-eight 
thousand miles. 



32 HYMN TO MARS. 

Dreams of thy brief terrestrial home 
On Tiber's banks, in infant Rome — 

Where thou art still revered — 
When Rhea left the vestal shrine 
To bear thee Romulus Quirinine, 

Mars with the golden beard ! 



Creation's mighty problem solved 
And, out of chaos dark, evolved 

The star for man prepared, 
With thee there came a spirit band, 
From higher spheres, to grace the land, 

Mars with the golden beard ! 



Like birds in spring on Arctic rocks, 
Or mariners, who, from ocean's shocks, 

To some lone isle have veered, 
Cleaving ethereal realms of light, 
Ye landed on Olympus' height, 

Mars with the golden beard ! 



HYMN TO MAES. 33 

They on glad plains, in moulds of grace 
And beauty, fashioned our race. 

In Etna's caverns seared, 
The sword to Vulcan gavest thou, 
From which he forged the primal plough, 

Mars with the golden beard ! 



To nature wild abandoned long, 
In sportive dance and festive song, 

Earth's children .first were reared ; 
Thy brother Gods, loved, drank, and ate, 
E'en Zeus himself threw off all state, 

Mars with the golden beard ! 



But thou didst teach the sons of toil 

To delve the brown glebe's pinguid soil 

'Neath flowery meads unspared ; 

In vernal months to plant and sow, 

To harvest when days shorter grow, 

Mars with the golden beard ! 
2* 



34 HYMN TO MAES. 

And when, years o'er, their task was done 
From earth rebounding to the sun, 

By man more loved than feared, 
Each sought his planet-home afar, 
And with them, thou, red God of War, 

Mars with the golden beard ! 



# 



©I)e Jttaften'0 €l)ilbren. 

SUGGESTED BY MISS STEBBINs' STATUE OE THE LOTUS 
EATER. 

A maiden in her summer bloom, 

Whose heart had neither felt love's thorn 
Nor yet rejected love with scorn, 

Lamented thus her sex's doom : 



" Ah me ! whose gaze dare not engage 
In mystic tilt with belted knight, 
Nor venture, e'en in sport, to plight 
A glance to squire or beardless page ; 



36 the maiden's childeex. 

" Exposed to cold and sordid eyes, 

Like Georgian nymph, in Eastern mart, 
Who only may her hand impart 
To him whose gold her beanty buys ! 



" Whilst — like the incandescent blush, 

Which, with feigned warmth, doth tantalize 
Earth's breast congealed 'neath Arctic skies — 
Electric thrills my being flush ; 



" As though within me gleamed a tire 
Unfed — a glowing, not a burning — 
A coming thirst, a nascent yearning, 
A subtle, nameless, vague desire. 



" Ah ! would my soul from Earth were free ; 
For, like the puzzled bird that flies 
'Twixt fowler's net and serpent's eyes, 
I dread my sex's destiny ! " 



THE MAIDEN'S CHILDREN. dl 

An angel heard the maiden's sigh, 
And gently led her spirit- where, 
In dreams, she saw a temple, fair 

With chiselled forms not doomed to die ; 



The brow of Jove, serene, august — 
The breathing, almost blushing, frame 
Of Psyche, whose ethereal name 

The soul takes when it leaves the dust- 



Apollo listening to his lyre — 
Minerva softened by its strains — 
And she within whose sea-born veins 

Forever burns Love's unquenched fire — 



The Graces three — the sacred Nine, 
Whose snowy brows and vestal hearts 
Defied the Boy-god's flame-tipped darts ; 

And mortals more than half divine. 



THE MAIDEN'S CHILDREN. 

But when the maiden's slumber broke, 

Those god-like shapes, through memory stealing 
And Art's ideal world revealing, 

To new resolves her soul awoke. 



A roofless shrine deep in the glade — 
Where leant, neglected, moss-bestained, 
The marble god who there had reigned - 

Hallowed her vow, with fervor made 



On bended knee : " The unwed Bride 
Of Art divine I '11 henceforth be ; 
And rear a spotless family, 

With all a mother's love and pride. 



" My travail thus shall realize, 

Without a pang, her chastest joys ; 
In snowy marble shall my boys, 
Beneath my fostering hands arise. 






THE MAIDENS CHILDREN. 39 

" Since to their frames I may not give 
The quickening pulses of my heart, 
My soul its graces shall impart 
And in their stainless bodies live. 



" Their snowy shapes, without defect, 

Angelic beauty shall display ; 

No inborn sin of mortal clay, 

Shall envious eye in them detect." 



And, as a form embalmed in song 
Awakens to the music sweet, 
Which lulled it in its winding-sheet, 

So did the maiden's touch, ere long, 



Awake to life, with pious art, 

The graceful phantom here congealed ; 
A Phenix, though in snow revealed, 

Out of the ashes of her heart. 



®l)e incomplete picture. 

Last summer, in the CatsMll range, 
I took a sketch, and thought it good, 

Of yonder dale — and now 'tis strange, 
The picture chimes not with my mood. 



And yet the brush's motley trace 
Repeats the landscape to my eye ; 

The hills, with grave or smiling grace 
Of chiselled profile, fret the sky. 



The knoll still shrinks beyond the lawn 
To nothingness 'twixt loftier steeps, 

Gay creepers on the cottage fawn, 
And o'er the brook the willow weeps. 



THE INCOMPLETE PICTURE. 41 

The unchained skiff upon the bank 
Its shoulder rests, as in a doze ; 

The oars press down the rushes dank, 
The lake with yellow sunset glows. 



Yon urchin toward the water sways 
His oxen, lightened of their yoke ; 

The air they breathe is autumn's haze, 
Or Indian summer's chilly smoke. 



Yet, like some tune that wakes no more, 
Though sweetly sung in after years, 

Emotions which it roused of yore, 
The dance's throb — the burial's tears ; 



My canvas mirror, tame and cold, 
Lacks sleeping Nature's living glow ; 

Like shrouds its shadows wrap the wold, 
Nor with the sunset seem to grow. 



42 



THE INCOMPLETE PICTURE. 



Ah ! now I see its chief defect ; 

My hand refused, beneath the porch, 
To seat the lass with garlands decked 

Whose eyes took up day's fading torch ! 




Qtt)t <ta anb tt»e 0l)abot». 

The oak still haunts the grove, 
From which poor Joe, 
Ten years ago, 

Took the leap of death, for love. 



As circles in a lake, 

Which shun the stone 
By boyhood thrown, 

Recoiled the trees of the brake, 



Far from that oak of doom, 

As children fear 

The atmosphere 
Of the phantom-haunted tomb. 



44 THE TKEE AND THE SHADOW. 

The woodman's loud alarm 
Drew young and old, 
Where stiff and cold 

Joe hung on that oak's right arm. 



They cut his body loose, 
But left the rope, 
That stifled hope, 

To dangle without its noose, 



And swing to every breeze, 
Scaring the herds 
And forest birds, 

To the shade of other trees. 



And children held their breath 

At work or play, 

The sunniest day, 
"When they passed that tree of death. 



THE TREE AND THE SHADOW. 45 

From that gray morn till now, 

No foliage green 

Hath e'er been seen 
To sprout on that fatal bough : 



That devil's fishing rod, 

From which long dangled 
The line that angled 

For soiils in the sea-green sod. 



Ere Willie went to sea, 
Within the shade 
Of that lone glade, 

He whispered his vows to me., 



The moon was in Orion, 

When, from his breast 
The love supprest 

Leapt like an ambushed Hod. 



46 THE TEEE AND THE SHADOW. 

Climbing the Eastern sky, 
A cloud arose, 
Like fleecy snows 

Capping a mountain high, 



Until it decked the moon, 

As laces veil 

A maiden pale, 
Who is wed in sunny June. 



The cloud its blue way felt, 
In calm ascent, 
And soon was blent 
With Orion's radiant belt. 



Then shone the moon a queen, 
That belt her crown, 
From which drooped down 

White plumes, with diamonds between. 



THE TKEE ANT> THE SHADOW. 47 

Behind that cloudy height 

Her rays then set, 

And chang'd to jet 
The azure garments of night. 



Thridding the ghostly glade 
With clasped hands, 
(Gold ran Time's sands), 

In tender converse we strayed, 



Till changed the midnight bell 
My joy to sadness 
And his to madness, 

With its clang of long farewell ! 



Dropping her snowy veil, 
The moon betrayed 
Within the glade 

Its skeletons grim and pale. 



48 THE TREE AND THE SHADOW. 

And as I homeward started, 
I turned rny face 
To see the place 

Where Willie and I had parted. 



Beneath the haunted tree, 
The oak of blood, 
My Willie stood ; 

And it froze roy heart to see 



His shadow on the sward, 

Hanging below 

The fatal bough, 
At the end of that murderous cord ! 



JTrnition, 

[jTJNE.] 

Lie thou there, black pack of care 
I have carried full months uine ! 

Let me seek the greenwood fair 
While the summer's glory 's mine. 



Far from me the miser's lot — 
Beadle of a golden shrine — 

Whilst, by nature's toil begot, 
All the summer's wealth is mine. 



In the masquerade of flowers 
Let the Cedar, Larch and Pine 

Mourn stern winter's vanished towers, 
So the summer's joy be mine. 



50 



Ninety times the sun shall rise 

Earlier from his couch of brine, 
And shall linger in the skies 

Whilst the summer's bliss is mine. 



By the stream, as when a child 
Shrinking from the snake-like vine, 

I will wander, thrush-beguiled, 

While the summer's glory 's mine. 



Sunbeams jewelling the showers 
Which the knotted clouds untwine, 

Over thirsty fields and bowers, 

Are the summer's gems and mine. 



Strolling through its paths of bliss 

Skirted by the jessamine, 
I will sing and dance and kiss 

While the summer's glory 's mine ; 



51 



Till the grapes the robins spare 
Shall redeem their pledge in wine, 

Let me glean the treasures rare 
Of the summer's sparkling mine. 




CeaDea cmb 0tar0, 

[SEPTEMBER.] 

Yesterday, when Autumn's fire 
Flushed the Maple and the Briar 
Till they crimsoned, as a maid 
Who her love hath just betrayed, 
Disappeared my Summer dream, 
Like the picture in a stream 
Which the wanton breezes chase 
From the liquid mirror's face. 

Was each reddening leaf the ghost 
Of a precious moment lost ? 
Else why should the Woodland's glow 
Thrill me with such sense of woe, 



LEAVES AND STARS. 53 

That from Summer's dying bed, 
Like a frightened boy, I fled, 
Hastening to the changeless town 
"With its stony smile and frown ? 

Vain the coward hope ! For night 
Brought a monitor in sight 
Sterner than those dying leaves, 
Sadder than September's sheaves. 
Lo ! Orion stalks between 
Aldebaran and the sheen 
Sparkling Sirius, in disdain, 
Sheds upon the Warrior's train. 

Warrior — Hunter ! Like a bird 
Serpent-charmed, thy blazing sword 
Holds me as it were the blade 
O'er a prisoned monarch swayed. 
Sword of menace ! Blade of fear 
Shearing from my life a year ! 
Shall I see thee gleam again 
O'er another twelvemonth slain ? 



©ctober £ag. 

I. — Nature. 

Stormy day of mid October ! 
Nature sees thy blasts disrobe her 

Forests of their charms ; 
Sees, like sparks from forges flying, 
Fall the leaves of Summer dying 

In gray Autumn's arms. 



As a mother, to her tender 
Babes, her raiment doth surrender 

In the wintry hours ; 
Busy in the tempest's watches, 
With a quilt of many patches, 

Covereth she the flowers. 



OCTOBER LAY. 55 

As escape the winged legions 
Of the air, from Arctic regions, 

Pale with sunless cold ; 
Gales, in search of tropic fires 
Rushing, wake the thousand lyres 

Of the Druid wold. 



Green, midst Autumn's fading splendoi. 
Swing the lonely willow's tender 

Fringes, o'er the brook ; 
As though, fresh from Ocean's portal, 
Some fair Nereid immortal 

There her ringlets shook. 



Circling zephyrs, with caresses, 
Gently sway those drooping tresses 

Sheltered by the grove ; 
"Whilst its giant tree-tops, braving 
Ruder blasts, are madly waving 

In the air above. 



56 OCTOBER LAY. 



II. — Man. 



Stormy day of mid October ! 
I, poor drunkard, waxing sober, 

Feel thy pelting rain, 
Fierce as shot, my cheeks assailing, 
Driven by the blast whose wailing 
Heralds winter's reigrj. 



As I plod with weary measure, 
Conscience tolls the knell of pleasure ; 

Oh ! the Summer hours ! 
Gone are now their joys enchanting, 
Leaving only phantoms, haunting 

Memory's leafless bowers. 



On the leaves the wayside strewing, 
I, in each a moment rueing, 
Look with tearful eyes ; 



OCTOBER LAY. 57 

Look, as were they corpses serried 
On a battle-field, ere buried 
ISTever more to rise. 



Blows the north-wind sharp and biting, 
Scatters dreams of bliss inviting, 

Rain-drops burn like fire, 
And the fire my breast tormenting, 
Unextinguished, unrelenting, 

Withers all desire, 



Though, like spray from storm-lashed surges, 
Whip the forest's leaves thy scourges, 

Fearful Hurricane ! 
Leaflets, erst Spring's welcome bringing, 
To the willow fondly clinging, 

Bright as hope remain. 



3* 



0ong of -tfjc ttJren. 

The summer's joyous warblers away 

Have flown from November's frown, 
And, midst the palsied woodland's decay, 
I reign on my perch of hemlock spray, 
A monarch without a crown. 

In early spring came the Oriole, 

To foster her orange brood, 
Ere crept the rattlesnake from his hole 
Or the dormant Owl his stern patrol 
Resumed, in the tropic wood. 

The Throstle brown and the Catbird gray, 

With the timid Redbreast came, 
And the Blackbird and the Bobolink gay, 
With answering notes took up the lay 
Of the Groesbeck's throat of flame. 



SONG OF THE WEEX. 59 

Out of last years leaves and grasses sere 

And the gray rock's mossy beard, 
In tufts, or copses shrouding the mere, 
Or 'neath the Catalpa's napping ear, 
Their nests they merrily reared. 

While lasted the spring-tide's quickening hours, 

Their carols the forest thrilled, 
They summoned the bee to opening flowers 
When honey, from April's balmy showers, 

The sim in their cups distilled. 

To quiet their nestlings' plaintive cry 
Like flashes they clave the air, 

Now chasing the golden dragon-fly, 

ISTow preying upon the insect fry 
Or the spider in his lair. 

Like guests wiio flit from a summer fete, 

Aweary of dance and play, 
Ere the motley fireworks scintillate, 
In starry pennons, before the gate 

Of night, and awake the day ; 



60 SONG 0E THE WEEN. 

They fled when the hoar frost first congealed 

On the clovei*'s flower-reft blade, 
And Autumn her tawny dyes revealed, 
In the scattered spoils by road and field 
Of the Summer's masquerade. 

They fled as worldly parasites fly 
From the prodigal's dying bed, 

And the only mourner left am I 

To witness the funeral pageantry 
Of Nature burying her dead. 

The squirrel sleeps in the hollow tree 

Or munches his winter store, 
The partridge crops fat berries in glee, 
The quail roams gleaning the stubble free, 

And the meadow-lark the moor. 

When spread the Oak his pall o'er the flowers, 

The silver Maple grew pale, 
And a crimson flushed the ivied bowers 
"Where 'neath the Dogwood, in fervid hours, 

Had blossomed the Orchis frail. 



S0KG OF THE WEEK. Gl 

The Hickory's green to gold then turned, 
Yet clave to the fruitful bough, 
While the Catbriar, like a miser spurned 
In death, was stripped of its leaves, which burned 
Like coals in the muddy slough. 

The Gum's leaves will with the rainbow vie 

Till from the Heavens, o'ercast 
With frowns no longer checked by the eye 
Of the sun, rebellious snows shall fly 

On the ruthless Arctic blast. 

But bis realms their absent Lord again, 
In Spring, shall awake from sleep, 
And my sisters will cheer their little Wren 
With newest songs from the grove and glen, 
Where the mocking-birds vigil keep. 



To Julia Romana Howe. 



jTalconrg. 

Sokceeer. 

" If, to avert, O king, 

The doom of death at dawn, 
My voice had summoned thee, 
I should deserve thy scorn. 



" To save my worthless life 

These lips shall frame no prayer 
Nor ask a boon of thee ; 
But if thy daughter fair, 



falcoistjy. 63 

" What time the noose shall bind 
My throat at break of day, 
Will smile npon me from 
Ton lattice o'er the way ; 



"And round her snowy neck 

The lilac sash will wear 

Which girt her waist that eve 

My hand was torn from there ; 



" And let its waving bands, 
Which fell below her knee, 
Appear to hold her looped 
. As will the halter me : 



' And last — if, when I drop, 
Her head shall sink beneath 
The casement-sill, as though 
Resolved to share my death, 



64 FALCONRY. 

" Pledge this, and ask what boon 
A wizard may impart — 
A spark to fire thy veins, 

A hoard to freeze thy heart." 

King. 

"All this and more I grant — 
Thy life and her white hand, 
The sceptre and the crown 
By which I rule the land, 



" Whereof thou shalt be king, 
And I will go my ways, 
So thou 'It impart the spell 
Of never-ending days." 

Soeceeee. 
" The kneeling boor, whose shoulder 
Is smitten by thy sword, 
Arises, by the spell 

Of kingly words — a lord. 



FAXCONEY. 65 

" But whom my wand shall touch, 
Be high or low his birth, 
My whispered charm can make 
The richest of the earth. 



"The shibboleth of life 

Would lose my soul, if told, 
For what I ask, be thine 

The charm of endless gold." 

King. 
" So thou wilt prove that spell 
Upon the chains that hold 
Thy body, and transmute 
Their iron into gold ; 



" My daughter from yon lattice 
Shall smile on thee, nor falter 
When, in the morn, the hangman 
Shall loop thee with the halter: 



66 



" The lilac sash she wore, 

The night I found thy grasp 
Around her in the garden, 
Her snowy neck shall clasp: 



"And on the lattice-bow 
Its waving ends I'll tie, 
That she may seem to thee 
Like thee about to die ; 



" And when beneath thy feet 
The fatal bolt is sped, 
I swear that she shall bow, 
Saluting thee, her head." 

Sorcerer. 
" Now cross yon hazel wand 
Upon thy royal sword, 
And swear by Him who died 
That thou wilt keep thy word. 



FALCONRY. 67 

" 'T is well — dismiss these slaves, 
Now take the hazel wand : 
The serpent-head in thine, 
The tail in my right hand. 



" Thine ear bring close and listen, 
And after me recite 
The measured incantation, 
And grasp the hazel tight. 



" Nay, open not thine eyes 
So wide, as in dismay ; 
No coward will the Gnome 
Who guards the mine obey. 



" The Sprite must know a master 
Or else the master he : 
The second rune is faster ; 
Repeat it after me. 



08 FALCONET. 

" Thy face is pale, O monarch ! 
And all alive thy hair. 
Pause not ! or of the malice 
Of Gnome and Sprite beware. 



" 'T is said — now touch my chains, 
Ha ! they grow yellow straight, 
And from my wrists I feel 

Them hang with heavier weight. 



" Now get the charm by rote ; 
A word misplaced rebounds 
As from a rock the ball 

Which him who shot it wounds. 



" Ah, so ! these chains thou fain 
Wouldst in the furnace try ? 
Exchange them — and thou 'It find 
Their gold no jugglery." 



FALCONE r. 69 



At dawn, beneath the gibbet, 
Serene the wizard stood ; 

And saw within the lattice 
The princess he had wooed. 



Around her neck the sash 

As round his throat the cord ; 

Then knew he that the king 
Had kept his royal word. 



For, by its fastened ends, 
The lilac noose was hung 

As from the gallows-tree 

The rope, that held him, swung 



And, when their glances met, 

Upon her lip and eye 
He saw a radiant smile, 

And said — " Now let me die," 



70 FALCONET. 

And when the trap was sprung 
The princess dipped her head; 

But when they came to raise her, 
They found her spirit fled ; 



And, 'twixt those corpses twain, 
They saw a falcon bear 

Aloft, with cleuched talons, 
A white dove through the air. 




To Fitz Greene Hailed. 



Wc\i Poet's 2Ute. 

Down the mountain as I wandered, 
And upon the landscape pondered, 

Where, as in a net, 
Lordly hedge and stately railing 
With the farmer's wooden paling 

Intersecting met, 



Compassing the field of azure 
Of the lake no rigid measure 

Mapped unequally, 
I bethought me, " Such division 
Of the plain is a derision ; " 
When my roving eye 



72 THE POET S ACRE. 

Rested on the sexton's barrow 
Shrinking near the portal narrow 

Of the churchyard green, 
Where fill prince and peasant places 
Equal as the chessboard's spaces, 

Hold they pawn or queen. 



Still the zig-zag path descending, 
Came I to a painter blending, 

On a tinier scale, 
Under April's sunshine merry, 
Meadow, lake and cemetery 

Sparkling in the vale. 



And, with passionate expansion, 
Free from envy, I the mansion 

And the cot surveyed, 
Coveting nor manor pleasant 
Nor the patches which the peasant 

Vexed with hoe and spade. 



THE POET'S ACEE. 



13 



Happy, though without an acre, 
While supplies the paper-maker 

Sod like this fair page 
Into which, at Fancy's hours, 
I transplant the wayside flowers 

Of my pilgrimage. 



%M<k>^ 




Sio 3Ufrci> ©mngson. 

A curate, in a lonely hamlet preaching, 

Nor heard beyond 
Until with rumors of his saintly teaching 

Echoes respond, 
And then into a broader field translated 

With ampler fold, 
As soldiers are to higher grades elated 

For actions bold — 
Cries, when he hears assembled hundreds voicing 

Responsive prayer, 
Hosanna ! in yet bolder strains rejoicing 

The distant air. 



TO ALFKED TENNYSON. 75 

So thou, in humbler days, didst hymn a wailing 

For Claribel, 
Which on the outer world like unavailing 

Entreaty fell ; 
But friends around thee shared thy tuneful weeping, 

And treasured .long 
The memory of that hapless maiden sleeping 

Within thy song. 
I see thee now in Art's great Temple throning, 

A Hierophant, 
And hear glad voices from far peaks entoning 

Thy larger chaunt. 




Ho Charles O 'Conor. 



€$immxbtB. 



i. 



Yois - hamlet, 'twixt the river-bank 

And swelling slopes that grow to hills, 
Now rings with iron clang and clank ; 

The restless voice of labor thrills 
Its peace. On Autumn's early snow, 

The wayward cinder-woven wreaths 
The wind's wild flickering currents show. 

The fevered forge forever breathes 
From yon tall chimneys grim and stark, 

Whose dial-shadows, earthward thrown, 
The sun can never see, nor mark 

Their mystic march betray his own. 



EPIMENIDES. . 11 

There, though now 'tis sad November, 
Of my spring-time, I remember 
How the chimes, at early morn, 
Sang, " Another day is born." 



" Lasses, quick ! your kirtles don, 
Kneeling, ask His benison ; 
Up, lads, up ! The day hath broke, 
Waits the patient steer his yoke ! " 



From the housewife's tidy table 
Strode the ploughman to the stable, 
Stalked the sower to the field, 
Casting broad for Autumn's yield. 



Oh ! those ancient days were fair, 
Heralded by chime and prayer ; 
God, in sky, field, wold and air, 
Light and fragrance everywhere, 



^8 EPIMEjSIDES. 

When the sun, his heavenly dome, 
Like some saintly pilgrim, clomb 
Till, in the mid-zenith blue, 
Resting, half his labor through, 
Shone he, poised on golden wings 
As the lark his matin sings ; 
Noon, from the old village spire, 
Rang, as rings the tinkling quire, 
When the mystic Elevation 
Thrills the kneeling congregation ; 
From that bright aerial dwelling 
Every clang to glory welling, 
Glory, full of grace to all, 
In the field and in the hall, 
Full of peace, and full of grace ! 
Unto all in every place ! 



I forbear the urchin's horn, 
Requiem of the day half-worn. 
" Ite missa est." God's rest 
Attend ye all, for all are blest. 



EPIMENIDES. 79 

I forbear the vesper song, 
Doubly sweet, when all day long 
One has bravely paid the vow, 
' Thou shalt live by sweat of brow," 



And the dance upon the green, 
Circling round fair May's new Queen, 
Rustic sighs and rustic bliss, 
Freshly- wedded happiness. 



Faded now the spring's dear flowers, 
Faded, too, those spring-tide hours ! 
Sweet as childhood's sleep the times 
When I heard those village chimes ! 

II. 

See ! the noon's consummate fire 
Glows above a city's spire, 
Noon, that warmed the field and fell, 
Burns o'er street and citadel ! 



80 EPIMENIDES. 

But no chime from belfry holy 
Calls to prayer the high and lowly; 
And no herdsman's mellow note 
Preaches 'peace to tower and cot ; 



But, like fierce alarms of fire, 
Labor peals her tocsin dire, 
And, from factory-prisons tall, 
Tramp, as to a funeral, 



Women, sad with trailing paces, 
Children, wan with joyless faces, 
Men, with toiling grim and chill, 
Shivering at the whistle shrill. 



Cheerless noontide! whilom blest, 
"With thy boon of shade and rest, 
Bailiff now of want and fear, 
In gray garrets, where men hear 



EPEtfEXIDES, 81 

Imperious scream, 

The strident steam, 
Whoop ! whoop ! whoop ! whoop ! 

N"o play to-day ! 

Away ! obey ! 
March ye to the workshop dreary, 
Well or ailing, fresh or weary. 



III. 

In yon forest green, 

Where the hunt was seen, 

Following the hound 

O'er the scented ground 

Or the Falcon's flight 

At the Heron white, 

Horns no more awake 

Echoes in the brake. 

Startled, the timid trees 

Shake with the rushing breeze, 
4* 



82 EPIMENIDES. 

When speeds the dragon by, 
Yelling his warning cry : 
" Tramp ! tramp ! on, on, away, 
Tramp ! tramp ! by night and day, 
Throb ! throb ! black heart ! burn, burn ! 
Fill ! fill ! thy funeral urn ! 
Fly all ! my soul is fire ! 

Fly all ! my wrath is death ! 
My speed's intense desire 

Makes lightnings of my breath ! " 



Dread Genie of that mystic Lamp, 
Through centuries by sages trimmed 

In turret lone and cavern damp, 

Earth's vestal light of thought undimmed ! 



Lamp, fed by many a martyr's life, 
How purple tyrants from thy flame 

Have fallen, shrivelled in their strife 
With angry wings to quench its gleam. 



EPIMENIDES. 83 

Dread Genie ! to that Lamp subdued, 
Whether, on earth, the captive train, 

Or winged ark, through tempest rude, 
Thou waftest swiftly o'er the main, 



Or, like old Rhcetus chained below 

The Cyclop's forge, thy struggles speed 

The patient lathe, the hammer's blow, 
And all the wheels of. labor feed : 



Man's slave ! and yet with wary eye 
He watcheth thee as, in his cage, 

The master's magnet, holds in sway 
The desert-king's electric rage. 



Man's creature ! yet his tyrant too ! 

Relentless iron Frankenstein ! 
How hard the doom that bids him woo- 

And win those furnace-lips of thine ! 



84 EPIME^IDES. 

No compact, on enchanted ground, 

In midnight glen blood-sealed and signed, 

With closer chains the soul e'er bound 
Than thine, dread rival of the Wind ! 



For this, at least, the iiend of old, 
In ransom, to his vassals gave 

The flush of wine, the blaze of gold ; 
They reeled in rapture to the grave ! 



But thou, insatiate ! cloud and gloom, 
The fast, the vigil, and the scorn 

Of careless crowds, prepare the tomb 
Of sages in thy service worn ; 



Nor though a thousand paeans rise 
Above their wasting dust — to me, 

Shall summer thoughts and summer skies 
Seem wisely lost, for fame and thee. 



EPIMEKTDES. 85 

To me, the mossy bank that charms, 
With flowers, the mirror floating by, 

And priestly elms, that bend their arms 
In benediction, where I lie, 



These still remain* My heart can find 
Far off, but not too far from men, 

Some still retreat for heart and mind, 
Some wind-swept silence of a glen. 



There, when the gales exultant rush 

From cloud-capped peaks to genial plains, 

Each murmuring tree, each whispering bush, 
Shall wake to soft Eolian strains. 



To them my gorge shall still be free ; 

But thou, mailed champion of the plain ! 
My panoply of rock, shall see 

Thy fiery charge, renewed in vain ! 



86 EPIMEOTDES. 

There, pausing on the soft descent 

Of slopes where rest the pine and birch, 

The shepherd's hut and hunter's tent 
Shall nestle near the Alpine church ; 



Whose housewife bell, when day is gone, 
With silver metes the pall of night, 

And, when the stars have left their throne, 
Marks day's brocade with measure bright. 



And when the goatherd's children stray 
Down the long hill to my lone nook, 

Their shouts shall win me to their play, 
To wander with them by the brook ; 



There shall our hands the osier weave, 
And plait the flowers in garlands bright, 

With talk and laugh, till fostering eve 
Recalls them to their cottage height. 



EPIMENIDES. 87 

When frost and winter drive the herds 
To towns, where men and herds are sold, 

They '11 leave me with the winter birds, 
Star-watched, within my sacred fold ; 



And when the yule-log lights the hearth. 
The peasant groups shall chat of me, 

And kindly wish me with the mirth 
Around their humble Christmas-tree. 



And one shall whisper to his friend 
New marvels of the mystic glen, 

And grieve for me self-doomed to end 
My graybeard days afar from men. 



To S. T. Wcdlis. 



ttJaking team. 



Westwaed, looking thro' my window, Venus shone ; 
Lit the room where I had all night -dreamed alone ; 
"Woke her lustrous eye the slumbering depths of 

mine, 
Kindling sparks among the ashes of lang-syne. 
Vainly strove the dawn's first glories through the 

gloom : 
Like my heart, the lonely chamber seemed a tomb 
Where sweet ghosts, in sad procession, seemed to 

flow 
Past my bed, become a bier, and there bestow 
Grief's last kiss upon my brow. — Each tender glance 
Thrilled my soul with joy and pain ; as in a trance 
Shrank within my palsied lips all utterance. 



WAKING DEE AM. 89 

Fading in the dawn the Morn- Star disappears, 
And dispels the tender throng, but not my tears ; 
For I wake with sorrowing heart and aching head, 
Wake to find sweet Venus vanished and Love dead. 



# 



To Eliza H. Ward. 



(Drcfjcirfr iFantaeio. 

Behold yon hale old apple-tree, 

In its wrinkled skin with mosses bound, 
Yield to the south wind's sportive glee 
The blossoms it scatters recklessly, 
Like snowflakes, over the ground. 



Like snow, in a night they will disappear, 
Absorbed by the yearning earth ; 

But the fruits it hath borne for many a year, 

The joy of urchins far and near, 
That tree shall again bring forth. 



0ECHAED FANTASIA. 91 

And as those blossoms sown by the wind 

Leave teeming germs on the bounteous tree, 
So gentle words and charities kind, 
Though man prove thankless, leave behind 
Sweet germs for the hoards of memory. 



And when deathward sighs the bosom heaves, 

Though the kindly deeds we have done on earth 
Should seem to us but as withered leaves, 
While our sins, like serpents, in living sheaves 
Daunt the soul on the verge of its second birth ; 



The blossoms shall flower in Heaven again, 

Where no wild breeze shall waft them away ; 
And the clang of the blow that breaks our chain 
Shall drive the emblems of sin and pain, 
The serpents, back to their dens of clay. 



(&'m me %o#. 



When age its wrinkles and its snows 
Had laid on Talma's cheek and brow, 
'Tis said he made the mournful vow, 
" No friend shall see my eyes unclose." 
For every form he looked upon 
Revealed a ghastly skeleton ! 

This earth was bright when first, a toy, 
Life in my youthful hands was placed, 
But now its waters have no taste — 

Bring me the wine-cup ! Give me joy ! 

Like Talma, in the Present dim 
And Future dark, I see abound, 
In silvery age and youth just crowned 

With beauty's wreath, but spectres grim. 






GIVE ME JOY. 93 

E'en Fortune's ingots lost and won 
Are watched by Care, the skeleton ; 

Kay, power, wealth and pleasure cloy, 
'Tis ail the same sad change of tone 
From smile to tear, from laugh to groan. 

Bring me the wine-cup ! Give me joy ! 

Though youth has fled, affections still 
With steady glow my heart may cheer : 
Come hither, wife and children dear ! 

Come, ere the cup again I fill, 

Come, ere each loved shape looked upon 
Shall seem to hide a skeleton. 

What ! was thy smile but a decoy ? 
And ye to whom I Ve given breath ! 
Do ye already wait my death ? 

Quick ! quick ! The wine-cup ! Give me joy ! 

Begone, ye vipers whom I've nursed, 

And cherished with my heart's best blood ; 
Beldame, avaunt ! with all thy brood 

And be ye all like me accurst ! 



94 GIVE ME JOY. 

Thank Heaven, thy witching beauty 's gone 

And leaves thee but a skeleton ! 
Come, friend beloved ! Thou since a boy 

My more than brother ! Thou 'It not fail ! 

Away, thou death's-head grim and pale ! 
Fill, fill the wine-cup ! Give me joy ! 

Thou'st changed the wine ! my throat it burns, 

'Tis bitter as ingratitude ! 

What ! say'st thou from the grape 't was brewed ? 
Within my lips to gall it turns ! 

Bring me the glass ! O Death ! thou 'st won ! 

I see myself a skeleton ! 
And that weird shape was once a boy, 

To whom each scene below shone fair ? 

God ! How its eyeless sockets stare ! 
Is there no cup will give me joy ? 

"No ! not the bowl ! The chalice bring, 
Exhaustless with the Paschal blood 
That purified sin's sable flood, 

And still flows from Thee ! thorn-crowned King ! 



GIVE ME JOY. 95 

In whom mine eyes behold alone 

A Saviour, not a skeleton ! 
Oh ! touch the hearts of wife and boy, 

And friend, with quickening grace divine. 

Thou wilt ! Then let me life resign, 
Sipping Thy last cup's heavenly joy ! 





& 



- : - ; 



- ? 



Ttf Leonard Woods. 



2tska. 

When first my infant eyes took in the glory 

Of this fair earth, 
Ere on them fell the shadow of the story 

Of mortal birth, 
The blessed light above seemed but one fusion 

Of many a sun, 
And, closing, they imprisoned the illusion 

That Heaven was won. 

When I looked forth again, God's bright creation 
Revealed its forms 



ziska. 97 

Beneath the orb which every constellation 

Illumes and warms. 
I then discovered 'mid the heavenly spaces 

Yast depths of blue, 
And on the earth the landscape's myriad 
graces. 

Of varied hue. 

Unconscious that, as cleared the golden vision, 

It darker grew, 
I revelled in green fields and groves Elysian 

With joy all new. 
The sun a dictionary seemed for reading 

Nature's great book, 
O'er which I pored wherever fancy, leading, 

My footsteps took. 

Oh ! then, Aladdin-like, I gathered treasures 

On golden stems ; 
First fruits and flowers, then clutched at empty 
pleasures, 

As precious gems. 



98 ZISKA. 

But soon these luresome objects lost their shimmer, 

As in a ball, 
When waxlights wane, the waltzer's eyes flit dimmer 

Around the hall. 

To childhood's lively joys, succeeded sorrows 

Poignant and stern, 
As he who silver from a miser borrows 

Gold must return. 
For manhood hath no sportive recreations 

Like schoolboy plays ; 
No anguish keener than when, in vacations, 

Come rainy days. 

And soon my soul began its second training, 

With new-born zest ; 
I thought to spend one half of life explaining 

What meant the rest : 
And found the problem solved and the equation, 

Like some tall peak 
Attained, which reaches but the adumbration 

Of what you seek. 






And when, with every sense alive to Nature, 

By day and night, 
Familiarly I knew her every feature 

Shaded and bright ; 
With adolescence came an empty craving 

For the unknown ; 
As thinks the spendthrift butterfly of saving 

When summer 's gone. 

And then, the sad reflection realizing — 

How brief is life — 
Behold the soul against the senses rising 

In bitter strife. 
Existence, like the fleeting year, had seasons, 

And, in the end — 
I could not through its gloom divine the reasons — 

Must graveward tend. 

Through misty tears, a God-like face and lowly 

In rainbows beamed, 
Around Whose bleeding brow a radiance holy, 

Upshooting, gleamed. 



100 ZISKA. 

But though, toward earth, big drops of blood, still 
rolling, 

Did lingering fall, 
He said with tender voice, His pain controlling, 
"I died for all." 

Since from His bow-shaped lips, like golden arrows 

Those words did speed, 
No more my heart an endless craving harrows 

With hunger's need. 
Already, when I lift my eyes to heaven, 

I see but light, 
And scenes once fair below, from mora to even, 

Are dark as night. 




To Julia Ward Howe. 



i$t£temps!K!)0£>X0, 



The God, the Hero, and the Sage, 
Nor sceptre, sword, nor myrtle crown, 
Nor e'en a drop have handed down 

Of "bubbling blood to this our age. 



Caught in the marble or the brass, 

They smile or frown their joy or grief, 
From statue, coin or bas-relief, 

Which, though in fashion they surpass 



1 02 METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

The chiselled thoughts of modern days, 
Bring to our eyes but traits of men, 
Who, like ourselves, on earth have been 

The shrines of Life's ephemeral blaze. 



But deeds and words embalmed in song, 
In after ages — like the seed 
From royal mummies drawn to feed 

The tribes which Egypt's river throng — 



Dilate fresh hearts and sublimate 

The lowliest blood with flames heroic, 
And fortify with valor stoic 

The weak against the storms of fate. 



Yes ! as the shivered chord's complaint 
Floats onward through the murmuring air, 
Until some unison as fair 

Responds unto its whisjDer faint, 



METEMPSYCHOSIS. 103 

So, when it severs earth's last thread, 
The soul pursues its journeying, 
And swells, on fleet and tireless wing, 

The shadowy army of the dead ; 



Until it chance a kindred chord, 

Within some brother's sleeping heart, 
To wake, and its own life impart, 

To sage's lips or warrior's sword. 



Napoleon fought with Caesar's blade, 
Dante was god-like Homer's son, 
Timoleon prompted Washington, 

And Paul stout Luther's fierce crusade. 



Nor in such mighty souls alone 

Do kindred spirits breathe their fire ; 
The humblest heart's untutored lyre 

From shadowy voices takes its tone. 



104 METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

Until they sound, bend every string 
Thy hand can grasp, with zealous care ! 
Though from thy lyre but hoarse despair, 

Fate's ruthless sweep at first should wring. 



Strain on ! until thy spirit's Sire 
Awake that chord of happier fate 
Whose jubilance shall modulate 

Thy woe to joy's celestial quire. 




Ho my Daughter, Mrs. Margaret Astor Chanler. 

tftfje Wxst Jftaften. 

Mastee. 

Pkithee, why forever sweeping, 

Maiden, this poor room ? 
Ever stirring, never sleeping, 

Seems thy restless broom. 



Prithee, why forever praying, 

Those pure lips within ? — 

Art, I fear, too dearly paying 

For but fancied sin. 
5* 



106 THE WISE MAIDEN. 

Maid. 

Though I'm ever sweeping, master, 
Did my zeal grow slack, 

Than it disappeareth faster 
Would the dust come back ; 



And my praying is but sweeping 

This poor sinful breast, 
Into which fresh dust is creeping, 

When from prayer I rest. 



Mastee. 

Never does my eye remember, 

Maiden, to have seen, 
When thy care hath swept my chamber, 

Speck of dust within. 



THE WISE MAIDEN. 



107 



Maid. 

May the angel on my sweeping 

Praise like this impart, 
Who, his master's mansions keeping, 

Comes to search ray heart. 




To Edward Cunard. 



tlje ©18 Hope. 

" Father ! what is this old rope ? " 
Boy ! 5 T was once our vessel's hope 

When the billows rose in rage her decks to whelm. 
In that wild September gale, 
Which had rent our every sail, 

With that bit of rope I lashed down her helm. 



Had its strands then given way, 
We had been the fishes' prey, 

And their banquet in the sea's deep caves, 
But I never lost my grip 
Of that rope which held the ship 

Till the winds had made peace with the waves. 






THE OLD ROPE. 109 

How the mariner exults, 

When he feels the throbbing pulse 

Of the ocean lashed to fever by the gale, 
And his hand directs the course 
Of his vessel, like a horse 

Madly tearing over hill and over dale. 



Ah ! the boldest charioteer 
Were beside himself with fear. 

If a steed in his teeth the bit should take, 
Not on solid hill or plain, 
But across the slippery main, 

Where your path writhes beneath you like a snake. 



There be those that gather nests 
Down the Orkneys' sea-girt crests, 

Who are lowered by a rope like this, 
And who, when their scrips are full, 
Give the signal-cords a pull, 

To be hoisted up out of the abyss. 



110 THE OLD ROPE. 

Yet the boldest ne'er dissemble 

How much now and then they tremble, 

When they feel their lives hang on such a bight, 
Though those fowlers, when they climb, 
Risk but one life at a time, 

While this rope held a score of us that night. 



But no feeble hand of man 
Thus from parting kept its span, 

And our vessel from the trough of the sea; 
It was God who held it there, 
For I breathed a breath of prayer, 

Like the fishers on the Lake of Galilee. 



When I'm summoned by the Lord, 
Round my coffin let this cord 

Drop me like a fowler seeking for a nest ; 
And another boon I crave 
Is that by me, in the grave, 

This trusty old friend of mine shall rest. 



THE OLD ROPE. 



Ill 



Dare an unbeliever say 
That, on Resurrection day, 

It may not serve to raise me from the grave ? 
Like the fowler with his scrip, 
Or our storm-imperilled ship, 

Which its strands from destruction helped to save ? 




<£l)e ©too Jttitrore. 

A skipping urchin, gay and fair, 

With eyes like sapphires beaming, 
Pranced np my path, his flaxen hair 

In tangled ringlets streaming ; 
And, in his dimpled grace, 
Dull memory sought to trace 
An image of the face 
That shone with kindred joy 
When I too was a boy ; 
But Time held off the glass so far, 
I only saw the Evening Star, 

And, by its twinkling glimmer, read 
On my own face, as on a stone 
With moss and grave-grass overgrown, 

The legend — "Here thy youth lies dead." 



THE TWO MIRRORS. 113 

The boy danced by, and I o'ertook 
A graybeard's footsteps trembling ; 
His palsied hand and vacant look 
No ills of age dissembling. 
Beyond! a churchyard drear — 
'Neath skies that dropped a tear 
Upon a freighted bier — 
Said to my saddened eye, 
" Soon, thou too, here shalt lie ; " 
For Time now held the glass so near 
That I could share the miser's fear, 
Who thinks how soon his grated door 
Must yield its silver plate, to score 
His name upon the coffined cell 
Where Rich and Poor at last must dwell. 



'.'. 



Stye tytbnxo ^Iptyabet 

Come, my little Hebrew lad, 
On thy task look not so sad. 
Only learn it, and thou 'It feel 
Writing is in prayer to kneel ; 
Writing, in His sacred tongue, 
Words His holy prophets sung ; 
Writing out the Law bequeathed 
Unto Moses, when He breathed, 
Near the burning bush, the Word 
Then as now, " I am the Lord." 
First we'll learn to spell the name 
Sinai heard in clouds and flame. 
Write the Aleph — every sign 
Let thy pen with love design. 



THE HEBREW ALPHABET. 115 

Aleph is bright Eden's token, 
Ere our race by sin was broken. 
Daleth follows in the spell 
Loved in Heaven, feared in Hell. 
Aleph, Daleth, then again 
Aleph taketh up the train. 
Aleph, Daleth, Aleph now 
On our bended knees we bow, 
Ere unto the Holy Rune 
We append the closing Nun. 
Adon Adon, clap your hands 
Hills ! while joy elates the lands ; 
Aleph add, and, with a Tod, 
Tremble at the name of God ! 
God with whom none others vie, 
God of Israel ! Ado^ai. 



®l)e ©lb <£eart)er. 

TUTOR DO^IIXI IXCIPIUM SAPIENTIAE. 

Encotjtsterixg last week upon the street 

A gray and year-bent man, 
Whose eye lit up, with salutation sweet, 

His features pinched and wan — 
" Your pardon, sir," — said I, — "Where have we met ? " 
Then he — " 5 T was I taught you your alphabet." 



I pressed his trembling hand aud took him home ; 

Infirm he was and poor, 
Threadbare his coat as some black-letter tome 

Marked " sixpence," in a store. 
A worn epitome of weary strife 
With cares that cloud too oft a blameless life. 



THE OLD TEACHER. 117 

For years on thankless labor's treadmill spent — 
Each one the former's twin — 

His only prop in age's steep descent 
Was now a pension thin. 

~Nov could the wealth of Harpagon but gild, 

"Not sweeten, his poor cup with sorrows filled. 



His wife, long gathered to the tomb, had left 

A helpless family ; 
My fancy pictured him, of her bereft, 

With their poor children three, 
Whose names he scarcely knew, till then engrossed 
In teaching syntax to his boyish host. 



The eldest son " went early to the bad " — 

The second to the sea, 
And with his daughter and her children sad 

He shared his penury ; 
His pittance eked an ailing husband's gains, 
His mind's full coffers stored their children's brains. 



118 THE OLD TEACHER. 

The Lapp consumes his endless summer day 

In gathering a store 
Of food, against the long and sable sway 

Of winter's icy war. 
But each day for that stricken household drear, 
Was, though in miniature, an Arctic year. 



A cup of water may the pilgrim bless, 

Though on his way to die 
Near that lone tomb, within the wilderness, 

Where his forefathers lie ; 
And on the old man's heart, with tender zeal, 
I poured the balm that soothes, but cannot heal. 



Nay, more — ere many days, my memory traced 

Some ancient schoolmates, still 
Within this vale of tears, whose youth had graced 

His Greek and Latin drill. 
The poorer ones each gave a cheerful mite ; 
The richer mostly but a shrug polite. 



THE OLD TEACHEE. 119 

'Tis not my Blender kindness to display, 

By unthrift far too scant, 
Nor to inspire your pity, prompts this lay, 

Oft sung in nobler chaunt. 
Distress abounds ; but this exemplar taught 
A lesson with a solemn meaning fraught. 



It set me pondering how through childhood's vales, 
Our steps are swayed by fear ; 

We dread the nursery's hobgoblin tales, 
A father's glance severe ; 

Until the climax of dismay we own 

Before the schoolmaster upon his throne. 



How changed our lots to-day ! His for the worse — 

Mine by no misery bent — 
Smaller than his my share of Adam's curse, 

Greater my discontent. 
I felt rebuked, to see so meek and pale 
Him at whose frown my boyhood used to quail ! 



120 THE OLD TEACHER. 

Whose rod was for my good. From its controul 

Since years have set me free, 
No dread of the old master keeps my soul 

Bowed in humility, 
As erst, till he released us for the day 
To sports and games beyond his ferule's sway. 



But now, where'er we roam, at task or play, 

A sterner Master's eye 
And keener rod direct our every way 

And action, from on High. 
Nor court our eyes the nod, that shall dismiss 
Our souls to endless woe or endless bliss. 



$l)e tftryei. 



An hour too early in the grove ! 

An hour for blissful dreams, 
Which countless starry eyes above 

Will gladden with their beams. 



Through leaves and twigs they peep at me, 

Like frolic elves at play, 
Who slip behind rock, bush or tree, 

Whene'er oae looks their way. 



The varying screen through which I gaze 

Fantastic shapes assumes, 

As with its breath the south wind sways 

The tree-tops' yielding plumes ; 
6 



122 THE TRYST. 

Till rests my wandering glance upon 
The steadfast star of Jove, 

As lovers' eyes all others shun 
Save those that drink their love. 



I hearken to the village chime ; 

The first half hour is past ! 
With what a funeral march cold Time 

Sets forth upon the last ! 



A dark cloud, sailing by, puts out 
My lone star's radiant light ; 

Its shadow dims with sombre doubt 
Fond hopes but now so bright. 



Anon, upon the thirsty leaves 
The pattering rain-drops fall, 

The sky its swelling bosom heaves 
And clouds each other call. 



THE TETST. 123 

In place of heaven's fair face, alive 

With kindly twinkling eyes, 
Remote volcanoes seem to rive 

The cloud-peaks of the skies, 



Up-flaring, like the beacon's flame, 
Which darts from crag to brow 

On Alpine summits, and the gleam 
Of arms reveals below. 



The zephyr which, with fond caress, 
The prostrate leaves just stirred, 

Until methought her rustling dress 
And fairy foot I heard, 



Like a startled hind, now holds its breath, 

As the north wind's eager pant 
With a hiss, as of serpents bristling its path, 

Conies driving the rain aslant ; 



124 THE TRYST. 

Swaying the saplings of the wood 
And its giants of stalwart form, 

Who toss their arms, like a multitude 
Applauding the voice of the storm. 



Soon, from the battlements of night, 
Fierce lightning shafts are hurled, 

Like meteors pre- Adamite 
In the old chaotic world. 



A roar, as of a smitten shield, 
Responds to those red brands, 

As when Salmoneus scorned to yield 
To Jove's divine commands. 



A roar as of caissons over a vault — 
Each armed with a loaded gun — 

Which, on its summit a moment halt, 
Then topple down one by one. 



THE TEYST. 125 

They are fired ! first singly, and then pell-mell, 

And the startled air is men 
By thunder crashes like echoes from Hell 

Of its fiends besieging Heaven ! 



Appalled, I clasp in pallid dismay 

The tryst-tree in the glade, 
While gods and Titans in frantic affray 

Ply round me their cannonade. 



When lo ! in the midst of that riot fell, 
Through its bolts of deadly fire, 

The silvery voice of the midnight bell, 
Speaks from the village spire, 



As waved by a spell, the battle turns ; 

Its wild alarums cease ; 
The moon again in the zenith burns ; 

All nature is at peace. 



126 



THE TEYST. 



At chime the twelfth, my whispered name,- 

And then — an angel's kiss ! 
Would I renew that fearful dream 

For the wealth of that waking bliss ? 




To Eustace IV. Barron. 



Palmistry ♦ 

" Maidens ! Bonnie maidens three, 
Stop a while and list to me, 
By the hedge, beneath the tree ! 



' Let me read each mystic line, 
Fate's or Fortune's future sign, 
In those tender palms of thine." 



Spake the first, whose thoughtful eyes 
Took their hue from azure skies, 
" Much I dread thy prophecies." 



128 PALMISTRY. 

And the next, with hair of gold, 
" I have had my fortune told, 
Yet comes not the lover bold." 



But the third, with lips compressed, 
" I will try thee, if the rest — 
Nay, alone — Here, read thy best." 



Then the crone with swarthy cheek, 

Eyes ablaze but manner meek, 

Spoke, as though the hand could speak : 



" Power wantest thou and gold — 
Both shalt have when thou art old, 
Joyless riches then shalt hold ; 



" Here I see two broken hearts, 

Neither thine!" The maiden starts - 
" Loose my hand ! I spurn your arts." 



PALMISTKY. 129 

" Go thy way ! The Gipsy scorn — 
Roses now thy cheek adorn 
Which may fade before the morn." 



]S"ow she of the auburn tress, 
In her " steel-eyed loveliness," * 
Ventures near the sorceress, 



Who, untouched the silver aim 
Lying in the proffered palm, 
Curious heeds that gaze so calm. 



As the jewel which, at night, 
Still retains day's vanished light, 
Shone the Gipsy's vision bright. 

Like that jewel's rugged trace 

On the crystal's polished face, 

In that eye she read disgrace. 
* Washington Allston. 



130 PALMISTRY. 



And a cold and glistening ray 
Flashed, ere turned her glance away, 
On the silver as it lay. 



" Since my sister Sibylline 
Read to thee its hidden sign, 
Pressed hath been this hand of thine. 



"Many a tear and many a groan 
. Hast thou shed and breathed alone ; 
The lover bold hath come and gone." 



Waved her hand with haughty grace, 
Burned like sunset's glow her face, 
As the maid stepped back a pace. 

" Dare not wrong my spotless fame ! 
Lo ! this ring protects from shame 
Love I may not yet proclaim ! 



PALMISTRY. 131 



" Though but lowly my degree, 
Yet a noble proud and free 
Plighted truly is to me." 



In those eyes the tears that shone 
Seemed to soothe the ruthless crone, 
Seemed to touch her heart of stone. 



" Ah ! I see. Its bitter foes, 
Pride and rank, the love oppose 
Which upon thy cheek now glows.' 



"If a knight my lover be, 
Soon his gallant form I'll see ; 
If a caitiff! He is free." 



Then the maid with eyes of blue, 
Clasping her companion, threw 
One hand to the Gipsy's view. 



132 PALMISTEY. 

As that gentle palm she grasped, 
On its lines the weird one cast 
Eyes in which tears gathered fast. 



Bright as pearls a diver bold 
Brings up from the sea-deeps cold, 
From her lids' dark eaves they rolled. 



" Dearer is the hand I hold 
Than the mine's discovered gold, 
Than the hoarder's wealth untold ; 



" Lines of hope and lines of truth, 
Lines of pure and peerless youth," 
Sobbed the crone with joy uncouth. 



Scarce these words exultant said, 
When a glittering cavalcade 
Fills the path adown the glade. 



PALMISTEY. 133 

Knights in gorgeous bravery, 
Steeds that neigh a proud reply 
To the horn's wild hallali ! 



When their chief in armor bright 
Met the steel-eyed damsel's sight, 
Crimson blushed her cheek so white; 



Faded, then, like evening's sun 
From the snow when day is done. 
" Lo ! here comes my champion ! 



" Still ! oh, fluttering heart, thy fears ! 
Though a monarch he appears, 
And a royal morion wears ; 



" On, beneath its golden gleams, 
Tenderly as ever beams 
All the glory of my dreams." 



134 PALMISTRY. 

Then the King, with joy and pride, 
Sprang down to the maiden's side, 
" Mother ! rise and bless my bride." 



At his spur's impatient clank, 
At his voice so glad, and frank, 
Rose the Gipsy from the bank. 



Vanished then her dreamy mood, 
Downward shrank the cloak and hood, 
And a queen revealed she stood. 



Then advanced with face of pride, 
Blessed her son and blessed the bride 

Nestling speechless at his side. 



Motionless the blue-eyed maid, 
As to break the spell afraid, 
Stood beneath the elm-tree's shade ; 



PALMISTRY. 135 



Till the queen, with courtly phrase, 
*' Prithee, sweet, thine eyelids raise, 
Lovely art thou beyond praise." 



From long lashes glancing under, 
Starts the blue-eyed girl in wonder, 
Like a child at sound of thunder ; 



Starts with cheek of scarlet hue ; 
For the page in doublet blue 
Timidly who near her drew, 



Was the same, she now bethought her, 
"Who once, offering holy water, 
With a wishful look did court her ; 



Once, too, passing from the church. 
In procession through the porch, 
Lit her taper with his torch. 



136 PALMISTRY. 

From her eyes, in blissful maze, 

Timidly responsive rays 

Meet his fond and sparkling gaze. 



Soon the joyous cavalcade, 
Bearing Gipsy, bride and maid, 
Homeward prance adown the glade. 



Seething spite in every vein, 
Chose the proud lass to remain, 
Envying her companions twain. 






To IVilliam G. IVard. 



Jtlinstrelsg. 



Es" the weary tramp of life, 
Midst its din of clanging strife, 
They who foot it in the ranks 
Fill their duty without thanks. 



They want water, and not rhyme, 
Food, when up is marching-time, 
Sleep, when, supper over, they 
Weary heads on knapsacks lay. 



Yet, when comes an eve of leisure, 
Oh ! how eager they for pleasure ; 
"Pass the goblet — fill the bowl — 
Drink we to the better soul." 



138 MINSTKELSY. 

Ear and heart then crave a song, 
All intent the listeners throng ; 
Crave no Bacchic roundelays, 
But the chaunts of boyhood's days 



Sings the minstrel strains of war ? 
Eyelids quiver, glasses jar. 
Tunes his viol hymns of love ? 
Moistened cheeks their magic prove. 



Glancing one upon his glass, 
Mirrored sees the blue-eyed lass 
Gifted first with power to thrill 
His young heart that knew no ill. 



And another, in the wine, 

Imaged sees the face divine, 

Which when loved and wooed and won, 

Yanished, like the setting sun ! 



MIXSTKELSY. 139 

And another, as he sips 
The nectar eager for his lips, 
Meets in fancy the caress 
Which those lips shall never press ! 



Thus all, in a dreamy fever, 
Would the song might last forever; 
Sighing when the magic strain 
Drops them back to life again. 



Bat to-morrow ! " Shoulder pack," 
Farewell to the bivouac, 
Onward march with drum and fife, 
Footsore up the path of life. 



So the Poet would he win 
Sympathies the heart within, 
Must not urge his song, but wait 
For the clamor at the gate ! 



T<? Alexander H. Sibley. 



Pcrrigo HJejeiram. 

While sorrows ebb and now 
On Life's gray strand, 

To all oppressed by woe 
I reach a hand. 



The body 's but a cell, 

Its jailer he 
Who soon from earth's dark spell 

Shall set us free. 



POEEIGO DEXTEAM. 141 

Stars, though unseen by day, 

Still glow in wells, 
Where truth's unwelcome ray 

In exile dwells. 



Like barks, wave-tossed till sore, 

Upon the deep, 
Within our souls, a store 

Of wealth we keep. 



Then, brother, here 's my hand, 
Though void its palm, 

Beside thee will I stand 
Till God send balm; 



Beside thee float, while hold 
Two planks together, 

Till melts His sun this cold 
And wintry weather. 



142 P0EEIG0 DEXTBAM. 

When that ray shines, we part, 
But thou shalt stay ; 

Another sinking heart 
Calls me away. 



And should hope's dawning beams 

To gems congeal, 
Bright as the diamond streams 

Of Maund reveal, 



Swear that a brother's cry, 

By eea or land. 
Shall ever draw thee nigh 

With helping hand. 



Not tome 3Uone. 

'Tis not within the vine- wreathed bowl 

Alone, that madness lies. 
Whatever quickens pulse and soul, 
Beyond sage reason's mild control, 

With wine's sweet phrenzy vies. 



The Boy, when first his arrow shakes 

Within the circle's eye ; 
The Youth, whose javelin overtakes 
The roe-buck bounding to the brakes, 

Is drunk with extacy. 



The Rider, when his steed hath past 
Some rival cavalcade ; 



144 NOT WINE ALONE. 

And he, whose bark and wind-bent mast 
On adverse sails their shadows cast, 
In sport or cannonade ; 



The brain that yields to starry eyes, 

Or fires with clash of steel ; 
Or swims when victory's shouts arise 
From blood-stained fields to evening skies, 
All these with madness reel. 



The Bard, whose fervid strains arouse 

Ten thousand echoes, when 
A nation's gratitude endows 
With laurel, or with oak, the brows 
Of King or Citizen ; 



The Conqueror, with sheathed sword, 
Midst Io Paeans borne, 



NOT WINE ALONE. 145 

The Tribune, whose electric word, 
Upon the forum's billows poured. 
Awakens wrath or scorn, 



These, all are drunk with conscious power, 

And they, the fierce or cold, 
Who revel in revenge's hour, 
Or who exult when gloating o'er 

Red piles of hidden gold. 



Yet, when I glow with gladdening wine, 
All, all these various joys are mine, 

At Fancy's will. 
Love, beauty, fame, rank, wealth, and power, 
Alternate, in the jocund hour 

My bosom fill. 



Again a boy, I clutch the prize, 

A youth, I bask in sunny eyes, 

7 



146 NOT WINE ALONE. 

The race I win ; 
My bark all other barks outstrips, 
My name is, by a nation's lips, 

Made Glory's twin. 



'Tis o'er! I find 'twas but a dream — 
But, through the fore-dawn's dark extreme, 

Day's earliest dart 
Reminds me that, in Love or War, 
Such triumphs leave no other scar 

Than in mv heart. 




To Anthony L. Robertson. 



&l)e Hubg ©oblet. 

Comrades ! we have sung and laughed 

Merrily to-night ; 
Each of us a cup hath quaffed 

To his mistress bright. 
Do not let a sadder strain 

Take you by surprise ; 
Ere the toast we fill again 

I would moralize. 

Blazoned in onr firmament 

Float the poised hours, 
From their task, like us, unbent, 

Garlanded with flowers. 



148 THE RUBY GOBLET. 

In this polished table's face 
See the wax-lights gleam, 

As the early sunbeams chase 
Darkness from a stream. 

Say, is not this empty glass 

Some poor spirit's jail ? 
Else, when I my finger pass 

Round it, why this wail ? 
Now, a maiden's plaintive sigh, 

Now, a captive's groan, 
Now, a stricken warrior's cry 

Seems its swelling tone. 

These dim arabesques you see 

Gild its ruddy bowl, 
Are the faded tracery 

Of a magic scroll. 
Mine the wizard's mystic lore 

To divine the spell, 
And evoke those shapes of yore 

From the crystal cell ! 



THE KUBY GOBLET. 149 

Hist ! An echo now replies 

Faintly to my hymn ; 
Lo ! A ghost with pale blue eyes 

Rises to the brim. 
Wistful is his visage cold, 

Trimmed his beard with grace, 
As we see in many an old 

Pictured knightly face. 

To my ear those lips so pale, 

In his native tongue, 
Whisper now a sadder tale 

Than our lips have simg. 
'Tis a century at least 

Since Venetian mould 
Fashioned for his bridal feast, 

This red cup I hold. 

Day had only broken thrice 

Ere the Adriatic, 
Of his young heart's Paradise, 

Quenched the bliss extatic. 



150 THE EUBY GOBLET. 

Ransomed came from Tunis' strand 
One long mourned as dead, 

By whose madly jealous hand 
His fair life was sped. 

Though she wept and tore her hair 

On her darling's bier, 
Fugitive was her despair 

As the fleeting year. 
Hardly was the crimson dried 

On the fatal knife, 
Ere became the victim's bride 

The destroyer's wife. 

From this chalice, which her lips 

Drained his bridal night, 
He, in spirit hovering, sips 

Still a sacl delight. 
Hark ! the spectre chants a lay 

Of the olden time — 
Listen, while my lips essay 

To repeat the rhyme. 



THE RUBY GOBLET. 151 

All the friends who round my bridal board 

Joyous shone, 
Are, like me, beneath the tufted sward, 

Dead and gone. 

Oft has this beloved goblet rung 

Life's first dawn ; 
Often wailed the child whose birth it sung, 

Dead and gone. 

Warriors I have seen, and statesmen hoary, 

Eound it drawn ; 
Seen eclipsed their wisdom and their glory, 

Dead and gone. 

Jovial guests ! how near your revelry, 

Those lips yawn, 
Which have swallowed myriads like me, 

Dead and gone. 



Comrades ! sadly sings the ghost 

Of this ruby glass ; 
Fill to him a silent toast — 

Quick ! the flagon pass. 
If so near the red lips yawn 

Of the glutton grave, 
Let us antedate the dawn 

In this rosy wave ! 



Soljemtcm 0ong. 



Come, trip it with me gaily here, 
The forest glade our ball-room is, 

The ills of life shall disappear, 

Or from the turf rebound in bliss. 



Blow, comrade, blow thy wheaten pipe, 

Twang, brother, twang the trembling string ; 

Care gripes us with an iron gripe ; — 
To care the joyous heel we fling. 



Their walls of stone but dungeons are, 
To them who in great cities dwell, 

'Neath roofs through which no sunbeam fair 
Can reach the flowers we love so well. 



BOHEMIAN SONG. 153 

For us, our last night's grassy bed 
Kind nature makes up fresh again, 

Ere drops the sun his weary head 
Upon the bosom of the main. 



In sleep, we hear the mystic powers 
Of earth their subtle callings ply ; 

Awake, in brighter worlds than ours, 
We read the marvels of the sky. 



Once more, sweet partner, pipe again, 
Twang fiercer, mates, the cittern's call ; 

For, unseen spirits swell the strain 
To which our feet keep festival. 



An atom less, and we should be 

Floating on rosy clouds of love ; 
A feather more, with pinions free, 

Cleaving the paths of worlds above. 

7* 



154 BOHEMIAN SONG. 

Thy drooping head my shoulder seeks, 
Sweet partner of the wandering doom 

Which poised 'twixt earth and heaven keeps 
Us, like Mohammed's pensile tomb. 



The evening star sinks fast, and see ! 

Around us in the twilight shades, 
The mystic throngs of old Chaldee, 

Her patriarchs, matrons, braves and maids. 



Blow softly while the ghostly crew 
The cadence mark with statelier pace ; 

Are they so many — we so few ? 

Oh, brothers, quick, one warm embrace ! 



They're gone! 'tis night; at dusk they come, 

Those shades of our long-buried sires, 
To follow us where'er we roam ; 
" Now, comrades ! to your evening fires." 






'To Florence Howe, 



tooit?. 



Come to me, maiden fair, 
Maiden with golden hair, 
Now that the vesper air 
Trembles no more with prayer! 



Come, where the Zingaree, 
Under the linden tree, 
Spurring his comrades three, 
Pipes a wild jubilee ! 



156 



Come, while their tabor's beat 
Urges the dancers fleet ; 
Come, let thy tiny feet 
Mine on the meadow meet ! 



Bounding we gaily start ; 
Flashes thy blue eyes dart ; 
Spare thou my captive heart ; 
Or — let us never part ! 



Strains gently sighing in the air, love, 

Wake echoes in our hearts so near, love ! 
I pant with thy sighs, love, 
And see with thine eyes, love. 

Swayed by the magic waltz, love, 

Ne'er to its measure false, love, 
One hand in thine, love, 
One holds thee mine, love — 

Mine, while fills the glade the whirling dance, 



157 



With visions bright 
That dazzle sight ; 
Mine, while float we clasped, as in a trance, 
On pinions bright, 
This sparkling night. 



Rarest diamonds of the mine, love, 
Pale beside those eyes of thine, love ; 
But ere I thy hand resign, 
Take, oh ! take this heart of mine. 



Dying, sleeps in death the strain ; 
Sinks my sonl in gloom and pain. 
Till that waltz shall wake again, 
Thou and I, sweet girl, are twain. 



itta^urka. 

Stand aside while Schamiloff, 
In= the hall of Peterhof, 
Drags the Queen of Beauty off, 
Duchess Olga Romanoff, 
Stemming the dance's tide 
With the mazurka stride 
Which she so lately, 
Grand Duchess stately, 
Follows sedately. 
Now with a victor's pride 

Clasps he her slender waist, 
Twin -like they onward glide, 

As though by foemen chased 
Now casts her loose, but holds, 

Vice-like, her captive hand ; 
While, like a tempest, rolls 

Louder the frantic band. 



159 



He tramps with fercer swing, 
She his pace following 
Lightly as bird on wing ; 
Follows without demur 
His clashing heel and spur; 
He proud as Lucifer, 
She, as an angel calm 
Trusting his iron arm 
Through the wild dance's swarm, 
Till the orchestral storm 
Melts into melodies 
Soft as a summer breeze. 
Now^ other steps they choose, 
He in his turn pursues 
And her forgiveness wooes, 
With a beseeching joy, 
Wooes her retreating coy, 
When, like a thunder-clap, 
Halt ! bids the leader's rap, 
And Duchess Olga sees 
Schamiloff on his knees. 



To William E. Barron. 

Contraband. 

To the ball of Penalver 
Draped in muslin clouds, repair 
All Havana's daughters fair. 

Eyes like diamonds upon jet 
Sparkle to the castanet. 
Cheeks of pearl in sable set 

By their frames of raven hair, 
Saint-like crown the arches fair 
Of young bosoms free from care. 

Hark ! the dance is just beginning, 
See the Ethiop faces grinning 
On the ardent couples spinning ! 



C0JSTEADA3STZ A. 161 

Midst those fairy phantoms, waving 
Perfumed scarves the sense enslaving, 
There was one that set me raving. 

Princess of the Contradanza, 

In those glowing realms of Cancer, 

Was Dolores ! whom my stanza 

Cannot picture otherwise, 

In her stainless beauty's guise, 

Than a shape from Paradise. 

When her glance shot back the rays 

Of my deep imploring gaze, 

I wound through the dance's maze, 

Clove its billowy fall and rise, 
Taking oath by her flashing eyes 
That her heart should become my prize. 

When a man with fiery breath 
Whispered — "Rush not to your death, 



162 CONTRADANZA. 

If you dance this seguiclilla 
With Dolores, I will kill you ! " 

Though I saw but a swarthy beard, 
When I turned as he disappeared, 
Through my frame ran an icy shiver, 
As of one fallen in a river, 
Until she from her gleaming eyes 
Shot a meteor of wild surprise, 
And I read in her Hps' disdain, 
" Are you deaf to this wooing strain ? " 

On I pressed till I reached her side, 
Clasped her waist in its slender pride, 
And inhaling her balmy breath, 
In the whirl leaped from thoughts of death, 
Like a spirit which from its tomb 
Soars to Heaven the day of doom. 
From the panting throng, that surged 
Thick around us, we emerged 
Gliding still near its throbbing edge, 
In her ear trembled yet my 



CONTEADANZA. 163 

When, within the boscage, staring 
I perceived two wild eyes glaring 
Like the panther's before his spring — 
To my troth she was murmuring 
Words that filled my soul with riot, 
Words that soothed my sad disquiet, 
Till I saw a gleaming knife 
Tap the fountains of her life ! 

Aimed at me was the vengeful blow 
That drew blood from her breast of snow. 
When his error the maniac knew, 
With the red blade himself he slew. 
From her lips, upon Death's red tide 
Floated— "Manuel ! why kill thy bride ?" 



®l)e IBlinb ftbbler. 

Who knocks ? Come in ! Thy message say ; 
A beggar ? Sixpence — Go thy way ! 
A fiddler too ? A shilling take 
And go ; nor dare my nerves to shake. 
Thy little handmaid says thou'rt blind, 
Each eye, a sixpence more. That's kind. 
Two shillings not enough ? Ingrate ! 
Well ! let the little maiden prate. 
" Please, sir, his poor old viol 's strung ; 
For thanks he has no other tongue." 
A tear ? " Its strings he fain would sweep, 
Few thank when they a harvest reap." 
Well ! Play, old man. — That timid air 
Steals through me like an infant-prayer. 



THE BLIXD FIDDLER. 165 

Now swells the bow to fuller strains, 

Exhaling riper joys and pains 

Of youth and manhood, — old man, stay 

Thy fingers ! picture not decay, 

But Love, the Dance, the Festal Song, 

The Squadron's Charge — the Altar's Throng. 

Here, take my purse — my blessing too, 

Thou'st shown me something yet to do ; 



And when thou'rt gone, I'll hie me forth, 
Convinced there still are joys on earth, 
Though not the passions, pride and power, 
Which wither in life's sunset-hour ; 
But Nature's every charm and grace — 
For, ages wrinkle not her face — 
A steadfast Love, to Friendship kin 
The victory of soul o'er sin ; 
And charities, like cargoes sent 
To distant climes, which tenfold rent 
Bring back to hearts whose happy glow 
Is fed by what themselves bestow. 



THE BLLNT> FIDDLER. 



And all these fragrant flowers has twined 
About ray heart, a fiddler blind ! 



The poet hath no keener sight, 

Than this old man with vision blight, 

Who, piercing with the spirit's eye 

The veil of his infirmity, 

Hath, with his viol's quickening spell, 

My pinions warmed to break their shell : 

If I accomplish half the task 

He wrought on me — 'Tis all I ask. 



DIALOGUE. 



Round my heart thy viol flings 
Rapture, with four magic strings. 
If thy bow, with but the spell 
Of twelve semitones, can tell, 



THE BLIND FIDDLER. 167 

Like the rod that gold divines, 
All the ear's unfathomed mines, 
Spells how many wields the pen, 
To delight the hearts of men ? 



Countless as the shore's gray sands 
Are the spells the pen commands ; 
Earth, and they who on it dwell, 
Space and Ocean, Heaven and Hell. 
Be thy soul with these chords strung 
Fervently, and pen and tongue, 
Thrilling deeper, hearts shall raise 
Higher than my lowly lays. 



By the measure thou hast taught 
I will sell what life hath bought, 
I will give thy song a shape, 
Ere its fleeting tones escape. 



THE BLIND FLDDLEK. 



Mock thou not my humble art ! 
With my bow, God touched thy heart, 
And to Him ascend its strains, 
While thy song on Earth remains. 




To Frederic Berly. 



Keco Jttnstt 

Yott hear an air that thrills your ears 
With memories of bygone years. 
Forgetting age and care and pain, 
Your soul puts on its youth again ; 
And she who shone in beauty's pride, 
Long faded, sparkles at your side ; 
And as, in spring, old wines ferment 
When buds and leaves on vines are blent, 
So through your quickened pulses pour 
The effervescent joys of yore. 
Again her name drops from your lip 

Into the brimming cup you sip ; 

8 



170 NEW MUSIC. 

Nay, in the amber wine you trace 
The image of her cherished face. 
Oh days of youth and wild delight ! 
Oh gladdening waters, sweet as bright, 
Which memory's melodious spells 
Uncover like the Desert's wells ! 



.,_ Another sits in gloom and pain 

Whilst you drink in the rapturous strain. 
As East winds open ancient wounds, 
His bleed afresh at those sweet sounds ; 
It is the air, that lured him on 
To wretchedness in days bygone, 
Which now relumes the witching gaze 
Of those dark eyes whose treacherous r 
To ashes burnt his youth so fair, 
And left his life one long despair : 
His mistress by a rival bought, 
Or worse, his wife's dishonor wrought, 
Recur, as with those notes arise 
His heart's burnt-offerings to the skies, 



NEW MUSIC. 171 

And leave it, when the strains expire, 
An altar blackened by the fire. 
The sun grows pale, the air is chill, 
Grim skeletons his vision fill ; 
Ah ! in the tomb no terrors lie, 
For thus to suffer is to die ! 



N"ow, like fond brothers, hand in hand, 
Both tread some fair and unknown strand, 
In measure ; when the magic wand 
Of Schumann sways the tuneful band, 
Or Wagner's glorious voices smite 
The ear, and unsipped joys unlock, 
As when the Patriarch Israelite 
With faith-tipped rod struck Horeb's rock. 



One, wafted to the fairy isle 
On ocean's softest summer smile ; 
One, 'scaped with life and nothing more 
From ocean's fiercest wintry roar : 



172 NEW MUSIC. 

Both drink its odors breeze — beguiled 
From thicket and savanna wild ; 
Both taste its tropic fruitage filled 
With sweetness from the sun distilled : 
Both bask in blooms that never change 
From seaside up to mountain range ; 
Till to their ravished senses seem 
Life's bliss and bale an equal dream, 
And each, in extacy, forgets 
The past — its joys and its regrets. 




Sirabumrms. 

When the viol hath been strung, 
And the master's hand hath wrung 
Speech from every hermit-tongue 

That unseen dwells 

Within its cells ; 
Hoarse its voices until taught 
With his rapture to consort, 
Or, in sweet concent, to show 
Sympathy with human woe ; 



Then, in their retiredness, 
Craving constantly to bless 
Air and ear with tuneful stress, 

Each mellower grows 

In its repose, 



174 STEADIYAKIUS. 

Till a fuller choral swell, 
And a softer waning spell, 
Are the echoes that respond 
To the master's magic wand. 



When the viol's tones aspire 
Upward, like the breath of fire, 
Does the master's soul inspire 

Alone its sighs 

And symphonies ? 
Or, do angels with the strain 
Seek their long-lost home again, 
Soaring in melodious throng 
On the pinions of his song ? 



When a friend hath ceased to groan, 
While we o'er his coffin moan, 
And deplore his spirit flown, 

Dare we maintain 

That ne'er again 



STBADIVARIUS. 175 

Shall that unstrung harp be wound 
And the Master's glory sound ? 
May not, then, the lute enshrine 
Unseen spirits half divine ? 




To William Young. 



fgne© Jattti. 

A deeam the LiranerSs waking eyes 

May strive to seize 
As vainly as the bark that flies 

Before the breeze ; 



A strain that flutters in the ear 
Yet shuns the throat, 

As hushes, when you draw too near, 
The linnet's note ; 



Ad echo which, within a vale, 

Responds no more 
Than a beloved one, by the gale 

Cast dead ashore ; 



IGNES FATTJI. Ill 

The stations of the stars at noon, 

The silvery wake 
Poured by the horn of last night's moon 

Upon the lake ; 



The memory of April's grace 
When trees are bare, 

Or of December's frosty face 
When June is fair ; 



To strike from air those sparks of bliss, 

In solitude, 
Which seemed eternal when your kiss 

Its fellow wooed ; 



To ask a friend the boon yourself 

Had freely given, 

And find him dearlier prizing pelf 

Than Love or Heaven ; 
8* 



178 IGXES FATTTI. 

To toil from dawn till day is old 
With bleeding hands, 

Yet fail to find one grain of gold 
In mocking sands ; 



So seem and such the shapes that throng 

Him who pursues — 
Endeavoring to entrap in song — 

The wayward muse. 







To John E. Russell 



21 cram at Jtttimigljt 

Alone upon the Spouting Rock 

I hear its voices roar, 
And watch the baffled surges shock 

Against the iron shore. 



The wind grows bolder — not a cloud 

Restrains the sweeping breath 
I've seen rend ships — till mast and shroud 

Whirled in a dance of death. 



180 DAWN AT MIDNIGHT. 

Against the sky, with swollen sail, 
A bark now ploughs the deep ; 

Her freight, perchance, but seed this gale 
Shall sow, and Ocean reap. 



God speed those whom the winds pursue 

This wild yet starry night ; 
And keep my heart until I view 

Her casement's promised light. 



Sail on ! O bark, through every change 

Of season and of sky ; 
Within the haven of yon grange 

My hopes at anchor lie ! 



®l)c Charge. 



Canter on ! canter on ! gaily we go ; 
Let no betrayal our trumpeters blow; 
Till we behold on yon summit the foe, 

Loose not the bugle's wild breath ; 
Then to its sound we will bound o'er the ground, 

Jubilant unto the death, 



Slacken your pace as we rise yonder slant ; 
Tighten your girths ! let your weary steeds pant. 
Hark ! 't is the . enemy's rude battle-chaunt : 

Grow to your saddles, my men ! 
We 're on the hill ! — blow your will, bugles shrill ! 

Now for a crash in the glen ! 



®l)c Jttocm anb % Seacon. 

Honey moon ! Honey moon ! 

Though — this April night — 
Ocean, bay, and dark lagoon 

Revel in thy light, 
Will to-morrow see thy rays 

VV here to-night they gleam, 
And my young bride's tender gaze 

Still with gladness beam ? 



Beacon light ! Beacon Light ! 

On yon lonely shore, 
Shining, faith-like, every night, 

Where the breakers roar ! 



THE MOON AND THE BEACON. 183 

Like a beating heart, thy flash, 

Fed by human care, 
Cheers the Mariner when crash 

Tempests through the air. 



Maiden fair ! Maiden fair ! 

While the orange wreath 
Sheds its fragrance o'er thy hair, 

Let thy balmier breath 
Vow that, like the Beacon's light, 

Thou wilt ever shine 
For the lover who to-night 

Links his fate to thine. 



£ct €l)ocolatterc. 



Bright are thine eyes, my pretty little maid, 
As diamonds sunk in jet ; 

Brown is thy cheek, as shadows in the glade 
By eve for lovers set. 



Lissome and smooth thy fairy-moulded shape 
Which gossamer muslins press, 

As clouds around the Jungfrau's summit drape 
Her snows with mute caress. 



Sometimes a thrill shoots through the sweet repose 
In which thou art enchained, 

And like the flush of summer-lightning glows 
Thy cheek with azure veined. 



LA CHOCOLATIEEE. 185 

Say ! dost thou, then, a song of spirits hear, 

Inaudible to me ; 
Or, on his throne in Dreamland's moonlit sphere, 

Thy young heart's monarch see ? 



Say ! if the black braids of the silken hair 
In which thy face is noosed 

Are but a witchingly-devised snare 
To pinion souls seduced ? 



For — that thy fawn eyes bait no ambuscade 
Could I but fondly trust — 

I'd kneel so low to thee, O pretty maid, 
My brow should kiss the dust ! 



To my Niece Louise. 



Dolor C0. 

Hee ear to all the litanies 

Of brooks and whispering leaves alive, 
Pure as the violet-laden breeze, 

Dolores hath no sin to shrive. 



By fawns she \s welcomed in the fields ; 

In groves by birds with vying throats, 
To swains nor lords no heed she yields, 

But in sweet peace serenely floats, 



i 



187 



Till, in the twilight hour, she hears 
A voice that wakes her sleeping heart, 

Now, breathing tones that melt to tears, 
Now, blasts at which her pulses start. 



Sphinx-like her face, while tender fires 
Soften the glaciers of her breast, 

And pleasing fears and new desires 
Like fairy voices thrill her rest. 



Her ear thenceforth his trumpet is ; 

Her soul a lyre within his hands ; 
Her eye sees only light in his, 

Who twines her fate with silken strands. 



Titian to 0tdla, 

I love thee that thou dost inspire 

My ice-bound heart with quickening fire, 

And makest me forget, 
One silver moment, that I'm old, 
When warms thy breath my lips, from cold 

Indifference to regret. 



As, in gray autumn's dreary days, 
Their pallid cheeks the asters raise, 

To catch the sun's stray kiss ; 
So, ere the Arctic night sets in, 
Thy radiance shall my last thread spin 

With rapture's golden bliss. 



TITIAN TO STELLA. 189 

Oh, thrilling touch ! Oh, glowing eyes ! 
Whose beams, like stars in wintry skies, 

Shine harmless on the snow ! 
Harmless as when, in tempest dark, 
The palmer from the steel's cold spark 

A kindling flame would blow. 



Yet, phantom dear of buried days 
That veilest, with a sunset haze, 

The future's gloom and sorrow, 
Stay ! that the thought of thee may 
With one bright ray of happiness, 

The dark clouds of to-morrow ! 



To Julia. 

2tt last I 

"What care I whence the cold wind blows, 

Or if yon skies be drear, 
Now that my longing arms enclose 

Her whom I hold most dear ! 



Wbat care I for the wealth and power 
That light an emperor's throne, 

Since that kiss made — 'tis scarce an hour — 
Those tender lips my own ! 



Qtt'importe d'ou souffle la bise 
Qui teint en gris les cieux, 

Puisqu'enfin, dans mes bras, Elise 
Kepond a tous mes voeux ! 



Qu'importent la puissance et l'or 
Qui luisent pres d'un Roi, 

Puisque, cedes leurs doux tresors, 
Ses levres sont a moi ! 



192 at last! 

Let Warriors chase the phantom-light 

Of glory o'er the field, 
And Tyrants with oppression's might 

Make sullen nations yield. 



Let Orators with stormy breath 
Upheave the human seas, 

And Heirs rejoice when pallid death 
Gives them the golden keys ! 



I'll only live henceforth for her 
Who only lives for me ; 

The Vine that clasps the hoary Fir 
Makes glad the lonely tree ! 



What though death lurk in its embrace, 
Both men and trees must die ; 

What matters then my resting-place, 
Or when I in it lie ! 



enfin! 193 



De la gloire que le soldat 
Cherche le feu follet, 

Et de son sceptre les appas 
Le Tyran deteste. 



Que l'Orateur, comme l'orage, 
Souleve l'assemblee, 

Et l'aine, de son heritage, 
Touche la clef doree. 



Desorrnais pour elle je vis 
Qui pour moi seul existe ; 

La vigne verte autour de lui 
Rejouit le sapin triste ! 



Que ses baisers cachent la mort, 

Tout sapin doit mourir ; 

Qu'importe quand le meme sort 

Me condamne a perir ! 
9 



194 AT LAST ! 

Her tears shall bless with flowers my grave, 

Until her soul take wing ; 
As o'er the fallen Fir shall wave 

The vine-bells many a spring. 




195 



Ses pleurs eclateront en roses 
Dessus mon toit dernier ; 

Comme, du pin dechu ecloses, 
Les fleurs de visiie en Mai. 




0ttU ! 

Slaked is the burning desert-thirst, 

And thou art wholly mine ! 
Stilled is the heart I thought must burst 

When throbbing close to thine ! 



Calmed the strange sense of vague unrest 
That shipwrecked mariners feel 

Ere, through the tropic breaker's crest, 
They launch their untried keel : 



Framed of the lordly tree which gave 

Them shelter from the blast, 
When, beachward high, the strong-armed wave 

Their senseless bodies cast. 



197 



Like them on desolation's isle 
My heart was doomed to rove, 

Until beneath thy sunny smile 
It woke to hope and love. 



With fire they carved the giant bole 

Unconscious of its fate ; 
With flame I shaped thy stately soul 

To carry mine as freight. 



In it, through passion's surges driven, 

I float beyond their roar. 
And we, O Love ! are nearer Heaven 

Than when we left the shore. 



<ftl)e iXlariner'0 Sctrotl)cb. 

Moening-stak of drear November, 
Peering o'er yon wild lagoon, 

Last thy radiance I remember, 
Sparkling on that eve in June. 



As we two came forth together, 
From the porch with roses pied, 

Blushed I, when he asked me whether 
I would be a sailor's bride. 



Then, invoking thy soft splendor 
Lingering in the pale blue West, 

Words he whispered, true and tender, 
Till I sank upon his breast. 



the mariner's betrothed. 199 

With the twilight, ah ! he vanished, 

Vanished to return in May. 
Oh ! 'tis sad to love one banished 

To the ocean's desert way ! 



But though day thy lustre hideth, 
Star of love ! from morn to night, 

In the deep lagoon abide th 

Still thine image, truthful, bright. 



And though far his bark be riding, 
Friendly sea or stormy wave, 

In my heart's deep springs abiding 
Shines his image fair and brave. 



Jttan ©oerboarM 

The night was dark, and in the tortured sea 
Our laden vessel labored heavily. 
I had the helm, and standing by my side 
Was Harry Thorn, his widowed mother's pride ; 
When, from the poop, a tiger-billow bore 
My hapless messmate off, with sullen roar. 
A coop, long emptied of its feathered crew, 
Our only life-buoy, quick as thought I threw. 
He clutched it, and sang out, " Haul in the line ! " 
O God ! not fastened ? Whose the sin ? Not mine ! 
" Man overboard — up helm." — The ship we wear, 
And fiercer through our shrouds the storm-fiends tear ; 
Till break of day, we scoured the raging main, 
But never saw poor Harry Thorn again ! 



L To Carrie. 



Catecl)t0m. 



LOVER. 

Maiden, whom I fain would woo, 
Tell me truly— What ean'st do? 
Nay — a moment let the lute, 
That just won my ear, be mute ; 
Nor inflame my soul again 
With thy voice's siren strain. 
Speak me calmly — speak me true ; 
Candor thou shalt never rue. 



Maiden. 



I can reckon and can read, 

Deftly say my prayers and creed, 
9*- 



202 CATECHISM. 

In the church know when to kneel, 
And will neither lie nor steal ; 
Thus far have been reared in ease, 
Learning chiefly how to please ; 
And with song and merry smile, 
Hours of sadness to beguile. 



Lovee. 

This is well, but not enough. 
Life is made of sterner stuff — 
From the altar dateth bliss, 
From it sometimes wretchedness. 
Ask thy heart if it feel sure 
Thou can'st care and want endure - 
Sorrow also — nor repine 
At the lot that made them thine. 



MAEDElsr. 

If my will and power I knew, 
Me thou would'st not seek to woo : 



CATECHISM. 203 

Were my virgin soul not wax, 
Which Life's stern impression lacks, 
Waiting till Love's mystic seal 
Stamp its fate for woe or weal, 
Thou woulcl'st find the vow a curse, 
" Take for better or for worse." 



LoVEK. 

Sweeter honey yield thy lips 
Than the bee from clover sips, 
Sweeter tones than thrill thy lute 
Breathes thine answer to my suit ; 
Can'st thou not diviue my fate, 
Whether bright or desolate ? 
Speak ! For if deceived in thee, 
Life and Love must bankrupt be. 

Maiden. 

Ere a charger thou dost buy, 
Thou can'st all his paces try ; 



204 CATECHISM. 

Buy him, and, if good, he'll grow 
With the grace thy hands bestow ; 
Yet the jockey's cunning task 
May his imperfections mask ; 
If his value thou would' st know, 
Must upon a journey go. 

Lovee. 

Thy comparison I see. 

Like the charger's pedigree, 

I but know by whom thou'rt bred, 

Trained and to the market led ; 

Can but scan thy shape and grace, 

As I would his form and pace. 

Maided. 

Proof than this can'st have no other, 
Know'st my father and my mother 
Who, unless their life's a lie, 
Daily bless the priestly tie; 



CATECHISM. 205 

Though they'll weep when I depart 
Cleaving to another's heart. 



Lovek. 

I will take thee for my wife ; 
Worthless, else, would be the life 
Which henceforth belongs to thee. 
Say — shall thine belong to ine ? 



Maiden. 

As upon the fountain's brink 
Pilgrims pause before they drink, 
Pause to cool the heated brow — 
Pause I — well, then, here 's my vow. 



jttetatljalamtum. 



When, like a perfume, from thy lips 

The " May-Queen's Song " first through me stole ; 
Like dawn above the mountain tips, 

Thy voice made morning in my soul ; 
Until expired the tender strain 

And silence quenched the rosy light, 
When, though I woke to day again, 

Within my spirit all was night. 

When horn and viol banished thought, 
Yet summoned every sense that slept, 

My hand thy grasp with ardor sought, 

And through the dance's maze we swept. 



METATHALAMIUM. 207 

But while thy feet, with tireless tread, 

Fulfilled its orb like Dian chaste, 
My reeling brain with frenzy sped 

Until my clasp released thy waist. 

We married — nor would I have changed 

My lot that morn for crown of gold. 
A month has flown — are you estranged? 

I find you silent, thoughtful, cold. 
I am but mortal — whilst you sang 

In blissful dreams I sat entranced, 
And, when the waltz its summons rang, 

Whilst I had breath and sight I danced. 

But when or song or dance expires, 

A gold cord snaps — a spell is broke. 
'Tis sad but true that mortal fires, 

Like those of brushwood, end in smoke. 
You promised me to make life bright — 

With smiles — then why that pouting glance? 
You cannot sing from morn till night 

Nor I from night till morning dance. 



Zaxnpita. 



Oh ! she was wondrous fair, 
And when I said 
"Thee would I wed," 
She listened to my prayer ; 



But not as woman hears, 
When thrills the oath 
Of plighted troth 

In her expectant ears ; 



Rather as Mary Saint 
In altared shrine, 
With look benign, 

Receives a sinner's plaint, 



209 



Who asks a happier lot ; 
Though to his suit 
The Virgin, mute 

But gracious, answers not, 



Until his soul shall rise, 
Through saving grace, 
Her living face 

To meet in Paradise. 



I said, " When we are wed, 

My Paradise 

Shall be thine eyes." 
Then she — "My heart is dead." 



I answered — " Only seared, 
And by the blight 
Of broken plight, 

To me far more endeared." 



210 



" Black is the carboneer, 
Who burns the oak 
To blacker coke, 
And makes the woodlands drear.' 



" But blacker yet his soul, 
Who kindled thine 
With base design, 
And left its blossoms coal." 



" My love with tender art 
And patient aim, 
Shall blow its flame 
Upon thy cindered heart." 



At this, she dimly smiled, 
As in a grief 
One finds relief, 

By curious tales beguiled. 



211 



And when my suit I pressed, 
She, still in sorrow, 
Sighed, " Well, to-morrow ; 

Now, prithee, let me rest." 



The morrow came, and sealed 

Our fates in one ; 

Fair smiled the sun ; 
Gaily the church-bells pealed. 



As when you chance to feel 

A limb of wood ; 

It chills your blood, 
As might the surgeon's steel; 



I found the wounded pride 
Of Love's keen smart, 
Had left her heart 

Not charred, but petrified. 



212 



For years I've vainly striven 

With ardor true, 

To fire anew 
That heart by sorrow riven. 



For years my lips have tasted 

The mocking bliss, 

The marble kiss, 
Until my frame is wasted. 



And when I pray for death, 
Her lips, still fair, 
Add to my prayer, 

Amen ! with icy breath ! 



By tl)t €offin. 



Did she ever, ever love me ? 

Never, never shall I know, 
Till I join her soul above me 

And her body down below. 



When I sought to draw the foe 
Of affection from her eye, 

Mine alone was the desire, 

Mine the smile, or mine the sigh. 



See her like a statue sleeping ! 

Yet no colder is she now 
Than when living — and my weeping 

Failed to melt her icy brow. 



214 BY THE COFFIN. 

Yet that brow at times, with flashes 
Of a cindered past relumed ; 

Like the runes that flare in ashes 
Of old letters just consumed. 



Did its snow conceal a mystery, 
Shame or crime beneath its crust ; 

Or but cover up the history 
Of all human pride and dust ? 



For the last time let me kiss her, 
Shut the lid — I'll ween no more- 

Since my heart will only miss her 
As a prisoner the door 



Of his cell shut to at dawning 
To exclude all day the light, 

And at eventide set yawning 
To admit a starless night ! 



®o tf)e poet of JTarringfork 

A fkiend, * who in the South now waits, 

Until the Sesame 
Of Peace shall cleave his prison-gates, 

Thus spake to me of thee : 



" He dwells in Britain's fairest isle, 
Within an ivy-kirtled pile, 

Gray as its Saxon age ; 
Mid flower-brocaded turfs, that lie 
On chalk cliffs, like the minstrelsy 

That broidereth his page. 
* William H. Hurlbert, since escaped from Richmond. 



216 TO THE POET OF FAERINGFORD. 

" He dwells afar from Caerleon 
Where Arthur's dawning glories shone, 

Nor near to Camelot, 
Though, in his walks, the spectral throng 
Of Paladins applaud his song, 

While weeps Sir Launcelot. 



" 'T was there I heard his silver voice, 
In spells his pen had cast, rejoice, 

And saw its tones evoke 
The calm procession of his Dream 
Of Women tttir, until the stream, 
Of song, by night was broke. 



" Next day, at even's favoring tide 
I left the Isle ; and by his side, 

To speed the parting guest, 
Stood she, who held in either hand 
A flaxen child with golden band 

Clasped round a crimson vest. 



TO THE POET OF FARRINGEOKD. 217 

"As on them burned day's orange glow, 
My fancy pictured Xvanhoe, 

When Love had crowned his joys, 
Rowena in the bloom of life, 
The mother, still with beauty rife, 

Of his two Saxon boys." 



Moss-rose Pendennis, when he cast 
His petals on our Northern blast, 

To scent its wintry breath, 
Swore thou alone of living men, 
Within his widely-reaching ken, 

Would'st long survive thy death. 

Another* came, whose sparkling glow 
Might vie with the inspiring flow 

Of Rhone or fairy Rhine, 
And swore thou wert no anchorite ; 
For he once saw thee half the night, 

The cup with garlands twine. 

* William Howard Russell. 
10 



218 TO THE POET OF FAEEINGPOED. 

Two portraits of thee near ine lie ; 
In rapture on the Eastern sky 

The younger seems to gaze ; 
The other of the Western sun 
In autumn, ere the day is done, 

Reflects the saddening rays. 



But not thy living fame nor face, 
Though tongue or bust their image trace, 

Before my soul arise ; 
I see thee as in after days, 
Posterity shall with his lays 

The minstrel canonize. 



¥o Charles H. IVard, 



iiloforn JTattt). 



Hakeo Haring, in his bed, 

Woke one night with aching head, 

Having dreamed that God was dead. 

Freely flowed his tears 
Till, on Denmark's mountains dawning, 
Came the radiance of the morning, 

To dispel his fears. 



In the watches of the night 
Sometimes comes an ugly sprite, 
Saying, "Faith has lost her bright, 



220 MODERN FAITH. 

Reconciling beam." 
But when Charlie, with a caper, 
Brings me up the morning paper, 

See I 't was a dream ! 



If its columns do not lie, 
Faith, I think, can never die, 
While one man is left to buy 

What his neighbors sell — 
One, who on the share-list glancing, 
Sees it falling or advancing, 

Shrink with Faith or swell. 



As the horse another wisp 
Snatches of his fodder crisp 
From the hay-rick — I the lisp 

In a column near, 
Read of Walbridge patriotic, 
Shedding light on this chaotic, 

War-beladen vcar. 



MODEIlISr FAITH. 221 

Next beside the Hiramade, 
Demonstrates a " dress parade " 
That our boys to this crusade 

Body give and mind. 
Next, some demagogue deceiving 
Speaks to gaping crowds believing 

He to self is blind. 



On another page, unrolls 
Secretary Chase the scrolls 
Which revive rich Bankers' souls, 

Steeped in care and sorrow — 
" If you but elude a protest — 
What you owe is surely no test 

Of what you can borrow." 



Though T see in " Foreign News " 
Fresh Napoleonic brews, 
Yet, of iron-sided screws 
Cherbourg's harbor full 



222 MODEEN FAITH. 

"Worries, but scares not, the skittish, 
Atlas-shouldered, jolly., British, 
Lion-hearted Bull. 



For the price of Consols still 
Shows that Faith, with ready till, 
Takes grist to the British mill 

And its hoppers feeds; 
While the growl of bears satanic, 
Preaching ruin, preaching panic, 

Still no panic breeds. 



Who shall say that Faith has flown, 
Mourn her loss with tear and groan, 
While Xapoleon on his throne 

Sceptic Frenchmen trust? 
While we pay our parish preacher — 
To maintain each living creature 

Is but concrete dust ; 






MODEEN FAITH. 



223 



Or but charcoal which no fire, 
TTnfanned by him, can inspire 
With the brighter, purer, higher 

Ray of Koh-i-noor — 
While, for cash the road to glory 
Opens still through Purgatory, 

By the Bishop's door. 




In Jiftf) ^Denue. 

My husband is neither young nor old, 
Though his hair is turning gray, 

My temper is neither hot nor cold, 
Yet I mope the livelong day. 



My house is neither spacious nor small ; 

'Tis built in the usual way, 
And nicely furnished from garret to hall, 

Yet I mope the livelong day. 



"We have children twain, a boy and a girl, 

My every wish they obey, 
Tom 's a rough diamond and Maud a pearl, 

Yet I mope the livelong day. 



IN FIFTH AVENUE. 225 

Abroad I may either walk or drive, 

As it suits my humor's play. 
We breakfast at nine and dine at five, 

And I mope the livelong day. 



The bees that feed all winter on honey 

To flowers return in May. 
All seasons are like, with plenty of money, 

Yet I mope the livelong day. 



My husband's the bee that gathers the sweets, 

In sunshine he makes the hay, 
And drudges in rain through muddy streets, 

While I mope the livelong day. 



When dinner is over, he, like a drone, 

On the sofa snoozes away, 

And over the paper I mope alone 

At night as I moped all day. 
10* 



226 IN FIFTH AVENUE. 

They called me lovely when I was young, 
And fond of praise and display ; 

'Tis a tale that's told and a song that's sung, 
For — I mope the livelong day. 



An old admirer unto me came, 
Resolved new homage to pay, 

And, tenderly sighing, whispered his flame 
As I moped at home one day. 



He came just after the postman's bell — 

My husband was far away — 
And when he swore that he loved me well, 

I moped rather less that day. 



An Indian god in a jewelled shrine 

Condemned forever to stay, 
Like me — if alive — would mope and pine 

When alone the livelong day. 



US' FIFTH AVENUE. 227 

From worship to earthly love is a stride — 

A stage without a relay — 
The abrupt transition touched my pride, 

And I moped no more that day. 



He seized my hand, and I felt a spark, 

His eye shot a wicked ray 
Which I sometimes see again in the dark, 

When I've moped the livelong day. 



Though I forgave him, he wanted still more ! 

I scorned my vows to betray, 
But ordered him to be shown the door, 

And moped no more that day. 



And 1 sometimes wish that this stupid life 

Might finish without delay. 
I 'm a virtuous, uncomplaining wife, 

But I mope the livelong day. 



228 IN FIFTH AVENUE. 

And when to our marble church we go, 
I wonder why people pray ; 

For I have everything here below, 
Yet I mope the livelong day. 




®om 1 jfimerah 

Haeey. 
We shall be late for dinner! 

What is it stops the carriage ? 
Ah ! burying some poor sinner ! 

'Tis not the hour for marriage. 

Aethue. 
Have patience, Hal ! A regiment 

Of men-at-arms amain 
Is clashing in its swift ascent 

The snail-paced funeral train. 



"Right flank! Five paces backward fall!" 

The soldiers stand at rest; 
Bassoons and cornets louder brawl; 

The drummers roll their best. 



230 TOM'S FUNERAL. 

The hearse's sable steeds curvet; 

The crowd swells like a wave; 
The undertaker 's in a pet; 

The pall-bearers look grave. 

Harry. 
We shall be late for dinner — 

John, push along your horses ! 
This poor old coffined sinner 

May make us lose two courses. 

Arthur. 
To me this confluence in the street, 

Of warrior and of mummer, 
Seems as should Spring and Autumn meet 

~No intervening summer. 



From adverse points they each advance, 

Halt, pass, and onward go; 
As, in the figures of the dance, 

Two parties dos-d-dos. 



tom's funeral. 231 

Yoltaire said " all roads lead to Rome ; " 
" Or Death," might tip the phrase ; 

Be sea or grave our shrouded home, 
There end our devious ways. 



The funeral snake now crawls this way : — 

Ah! so poor Tom is dead! 
It seems to me but yesterday, 

That I beheld him wed. 

Harry. 
We shall be late for dinner — 

Pray, what was his profession? 
Rich, doubtless — or much thinner 

Would be this dense procession. 

Arthur. 
'Tis thus remorse, for past neglect, 

Prompts us to make amends. 
Perhaps these mourners half suspect 

That Tom in Heaven hath friends. 



232 tom's funeral. 

Ere unthrift wasted his estate, 
Want never left his door; 

And he, when ruined, change of fate 
Heroically bore. 

Harry. 

We shall be late for dinner — 
Of all this what 's the meaning ? 

If he was plucked, poor sinner, 

These crows will find no gleaning ! 

Arthur. 
He had some patrimony left — 

The oyster Fortune's shell — 
An entail out of reach of theft, 

And of his power to sell. 



He married — such a termagant ! 

And then felt doubly poor; 
She eyed his former friends askant, 

Till they forsook his door. 



TOM'S FUNERAL. 236 

The only friend that stanch remained, 

Despite her freezing breath, 
Was one, who, when his heart you've gained, 

Caresses you to death. 



His praises have so ofl been sung, 
He needs no other bard ; 

For still, at spiggot or at bung, 
Men worship Saint Otard. 



It is not to Tom's wasted life 
These mummers homage pay; 

But partly to enrage the wife, 
In death he holds at bay. 



Besides, he came of gentle stock; 

Has kinsmen temperate, 
Who build their faith on Grace Church rock, 

Are pillars of the State. 



234 TOM'S FUNERAL. 

I should have paid this farewell call, 

If I had only known — 
Before this dinner and this ball — 

Poor Tom "the sponge had thrown." 



Harry. 

We're off — now then, for dinner; 

We shall just save our time. — 
I 'm sorry your poor sinner 

I knew not in his prime ! 






To Hiram, King of Tyre. 



% Bogol 21 bote. 

If to dwell within a Palace, 
Out of reach of want or malice, 

Is a king to be ; 
If the loftier one's story, 
Higher soars one's earthly glory, 

Few are kings like me. 



Though a monarch, I've no nation 
To preserve from grim starvation, 

And no uproar fear; 
But throughout my city stately 
Suffered am to walk sedately, 

Free from scowl or sneer. 



236 A IiOYAL ABODE. 

Me surround no courtiers pettish 
With their capers etiquettish, 

Ceremonious, cold, 
Jealous heartburns ill concealing, 
One because the other, kneeling, 

Doth my slippers hold. 



Mine 's a life of royal pleasure ; 
All my days are days of leisure, 

All my nights the same; 
When I take an extra bottle, 
Cares my throat-latch never throttle, 

]STo one cries out "shame." 



And the visions of my slumber 
Haggard faces ne'er encumber; 

At my will I rise, 
And whene'er it suits my fancy, 
Rolls and coflee brings up Nancy 

With the dark-blue eyes. 



A KOYAL ABODE. 237 

From my larder's tempting plenty, 
Dine alone or dine with twenty 

Or a hundred guests, 
Sit till our convivial laughter 
Shakes the glasses, thrills the rafter, 

Mingling songs and jests. 



Lots of servants round the table; 
Lots of grooms within the stable ; 

ISTay, a Commodore, 
With his word and gesture serious, 
On the quarter-deck imperious, 

Is not worshipped more. 



Of all this the glad fruition 
Hold I upon one condition, 

Sometimes hard to fill — 
Hard as Fessenden must drudge it 
When compelled to shape his budget ,- 

I MUST PAY MY BILL. 



To Francis Morris. 



Beckforb, 

My eyes are dim, my thin locks gray, 
The avalanche of years hath bent 

My frame — will it susjoend decay 
If, at your bidding, I repent ? 



Repent ! Do monarchs abdicate 

When senses wane and pleasures cloy ? 

Doth avarice expropriate 

The wealth which buys no other joy ? 



BECKFOKD. 239 

The hoary king retains his throne, 
The miser's palsied grasp his hoard ; 

Shall I the crumbling fane disown 
Of which my will is still the lord ? 



Repent ! While Love's bright galaxies 
Still glisten in the blue of sleep, 

And shapes once worshipped greet my eyes 
When on the slope I turn to peep ? 



Read in yon bark that quits the shore, 
The tale, by years and tempests told, 

Of planks, without their sap of yore, 
Wave-twisted from her builder's mould. 



Yet, while she floats, intrepid tars 
Confide their all to her, nor pause 

To think how frail the screen that bars 
Them from the ocean's myriad jaws ! 



240 BECKFOED. 

She hath her legends of rare freights, 
Of food to starving peoples borne, 

Of silks and teas from China's gates 
And spices from the Isles of Morn. 



When weary of such " yarns " her crew 
Cast webs, like spiders, to the shore ; 

Their watch, in tempests, they fight through, 
Then sleep as were the battle o'er. 



If they beyond such hourly care 

Look not, whose cares may cease to-morrow, 
Shall I that drift I know not where 

Weigh down my sinking years with sorrow ? 



The wind is rising ; let me glean, 

From Time's heaped sands, such golden grains 
As miners gather up between 

The walls of long-exhausted veins. 



To A. r. B. 

®o a well-known Camellia. 

Pray, who was Lady Hume ? and why her blush ? 

Was it a sad or sweet emotion 
Which manifested on her cheek this earliest flush 

Of dawn awakening the ocean ? 



Was it the voice of homage women prize, 

Or undreamt Love's abrupt confession ? 

Or did the mute reproach of sorrowing eyes 

Beyond all speech make intercession ? 
31 



242 TO A WELL-KNOWN CAMELLIA. 

Was it the flash of anger half controlled, 
Or shame's ill-masked hue of panic ; 

Or the resentment of a virtue bold 
Withstanding passion's burst volcanic ? 



We '11 hope that she, whose name upon thy bloom 
Shall outlast all the princes and the powers, 

Lacked not a soul her beauty to perfume 

Like thee, Queen ! but of the scentless flowers ; 



But, like the matron fair I may not name, 
Her blush betrayed a soul transcending 

Her charms, and, through them, glowing to pro- 
claim 
Its grace with their effulgence blending. 



To John Nugent. 



itlcMaetJal ^rt. 

The limner's pious task was done, 

His Crucifixion painted ; 
And, in the convent, many a nun 

In saintly rapture fainted. 



The friars from the abbey came 
To see the work uncovered; 

The abbot asked the painter's name 
Who, trembling, near it hovered. 



244 MEDIAEVAL ART. 

The monks were loud, the painter dumb, 
The lordly abbot whispers, 
" There 's our refectory ! Limner, come, 
Before we pass to vespers ! " 



The painter spake : " Your Lordship knows 

True art needs inspiration; 
Pray, what 's the subject you propose 
■ For Prayer, or Jubilation ? " 



" Sir Limner," said the lordly Priest, 
" We care not what your choice is, 
Provided it, like Cana's feast, 
The pious heart rejoices." 



Limner and abbot made accord — 

Now in a manger shabby 
Fades out that "Supper of our Lord," 

The glory of the abbey. 



Ho William Henry Hurlhert. 



iBobern Sketching, 

Here upon the river's marge, 
Is the scene I thought so fair : 
Whilst I sketch its beauties rare, 

Smoke your puro in the barge. 



Yonder oak the creepers bind 
Shall my centre be — its roots 
O'er the water stretch their shoots 

Like the fingers of the blind. 



246 MODERN SKETCHING. 

First I trace the stream so stately, 
Say — a victor's silver car 
With its train of spoils of war, 

Parting crowds — of trees — sedately. 



From its mother-fountain weaned, 
With its faults the wayward river 
Rolls on heedlessly forever, 

Now an angel — now a fiend ! 



So — my water seems all sky ? 
Wait till I put in my giaze, 
With its soft aerial haze 

Shall both cheat and please your eye 



Poor old tree ! with * creepers twined, 
River Time is slowly draining 
Those few roots their hold retaining, 

True to grandeur undermined. 






MODERN SKETCHING. 247 

Trees and grandeur — all must tumble, 

All must topple in the stream — 
" Life " — says Calderon — "is a dream " — 
Art is proud if man be humble ! 



Here, upon my canvas planted, — 
This old tree may wave forever 
Fadeless leaves, above the river, 

Underneath a sky enchanted ! 



Fra Angelico, the painter, 

While his brush was silvering angels 
Hovering over gray Evangels, 

Felt, one eve, his touch . grow fainter. 



Never dropped it — passed to glory ! 

Paints he still in Paradise ? 

That's a question for the wise — 
But for us — enough the story ! 



248 MODEBN SKETCHING, 

Passed — and still his angels cry — 
Poised on never-drooping pinions, 
Snowy flags of Heaven's dominions - 

Hosannah ! in his frescoed sky ! 



Still his Patriarchs gravely smile, 

Whilst we say with softened breath, 
Standing where he welcomed death, 
" What a beatific style ! " 



I have finished — saint or sinner, — 
Clown complete, or finished Spirit, — 
May this morning's work inherit ; — 

We, meanwhile, will home to dinner ! 



Isaac 

They, who in the churchyard sleep, 
Or the bosom of the deep, 
Or beneath the sabre's sweep, 

Are not all that die. 
Other loved ones pass away, 
Whom we mourn as dead, while they 

With the living hie. 



Homeward turns the funeral train; 
" Brother ! freed from mortal pain, 
Thou in warmth wilt rise again 

From thy cold repose; 
When the sea its dead shall yield, 
And the gorged battle-field 

Shall its lips unclose." 

it* 



250 



Time dries tears; and jest and laugh 
Crown the brimming cup we quaff, 
Long before his epitaph 

Moss and age efface; 
Nay, the shipwreck's fearful story, 
Or the combat's victims gory, 

Years from memory chase. 



But when boyhood's melodies 
Shed their dew in festive eyes, 
Through soft mists we see arise 

Phantom-like, the friend, 
Dead yet living, who from home, 
Is in exile doomed to roam 

To life's dreary end. 






Cost axib Jiruttk 

I. Lost. 

To Major C * * *, U. S. Infantry, reported " dead 
on the field of honor" at Gaines' Mill, June zjth, 1862. 



" Sad as the last beam reddening o'er a sail " 
" That sinks with all we love below the verge." 



A legend of the guillotine, 

Or of the gibbet's vengeful cord, 
Or of two foes at sunrise seen 

To grasp the pistol or the sword, 
May for a beat our pulses stop, 

While fancy sees the axe descend, 
The pinioned felon hopeless drop, 

The slayer o'er his victim bend. 



252 LOST AND FOUND. 

When one, of old a comrade, dies, 

His life-march flits before our ken, 
Dim passing shadows that arise 

Upon a wall, to fall again ; 
But if we're told some dearer brow 

Lies cold 'neath Azrael's marble seal, 
As to a cannon-shot, we bow, 

And nearer to the grave-yard feel. 

But fancy's self-adjusted glass 

May not include the vaster woe 
Of crews, the storm-fiends, as they pass, 

In ocean's barren furrows sow: 
Or of gay legions, which with pride 

Of crested ranks clothed hill and dale, 
Swept down by battle's furious tide, 

Like stately grain by summer's hail. 

'T was thus on me this strife had gleamed 
But as an airy pageant's show 

Of war's bold game, which well beseemed 
Its varying chances' ebb and flow ; 



LOST AND FOUND. 253 

Until it, like a mirage, waned, 

And bared th y mortal wound — Oh friend ! 
With whom the parting toast I drained 

Was, "May the conflict quickly end," 

The Old Year sank within our howl, 

And, when the New in splendor rose, 
I should have wept — heroic soul ! 

To think thou wouldst not see its close; 
To dream the pallid Clotho held, 

E'en then, the scissors near thy thread, 
And that our goblet-chimes but knelled 

Thy fate, to death and glory wed. 

When I recall thy pensive face, 

The smile that smoothed its furrows deep, 
The sternness veiled by tender grace, 

As lilies screen a lion's sleep; 
I feel that we who weep thee are 

Poor trimmers who — as sailors guide 
Their vessels — waste our souls in care 

To follow, not to breast the tide. 



254 LOST AND FOUND. 

A teacher of the Art heroic, 

Who precept with example twines, 
Nor counterfeits a virtue stoic 

Against whose rule his soul repines ; 
Is he who drills a nation's Youth 

The call of Duty to obey, 
To fight the fight of eight and truth, 

To point — and more, to lead the way. 

Such wert thou, Friend, whose loss I mourn 

As martial seed! Thy fertile yield 
Might, like the Future's .garnered corn, 

Have bearded many a battle-field. 
Thy Country was thy only wife, 

Thy troop thy only family; 
For her thou hast laid down thy life, 

Though they had gladly died for thee! 



LOST AND FOUND. 255 



II. Found. 



To Major C * * *, U. S. Infantry, dangerously 
wounded and made a prisoner at Gaines' Mill, June zjtfi, 
1862. 



" Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail " 

" That brings our friends up from the under world." 



My tears fell on an empty grave, 
Yet let them not be shed in vain, 

But dedicated to the brave 

Whom thousands mourn amongst the slain. 



My dirge, in feeble numbers wrought 
With jnous heart, shall consecrate 

Their memory whose death has brought 
Such grief as thy imagined fate. 



256 LOST AND FOUND. 

Could tears wake them to life again, 
Their forms heroic would arise, 

Like trampled grass from quickening rain, 
Beneath a Nation's weeping eyes. 



Could plaint or song their ears but thrill 
As thine awoke to hear my strain, 

No pen were dry — no voice were still, 
From where they lie to distant Maine. 



Yet deem not that my heart retracts 
The praise ne'er meant to dim the eye 

Of one whose future words and acts 
Shall verify his eulogy. 



I greet thee as some vessel fair 
Her owner hath deplored as lost, 

When on his gaze, through summer-air, 
Her white sails glisten off the coast. 






LOST AND POUISTD. 



257 



And up the cliffs glad neighbors rush, 
As to a fire — and grasp his hand 

Whose moistened cheek the breezes flush 
That waft his lost bark to the land. 




To Richard Ray Ward. 



Stye totboro of Worcester. 

Last Spring, when Frank had fed the ploughed 

and harrowed ground with seed, 
A fearful cry tore by us with the South wind's 

winged speed. 
But we hoped it was a nightmare, till the news 

was brought from town 
That the horde of Charleston maniacs had torn 

our banner down. 
In my bitter grief and anguish keen I felt the 

ancient ire 
Of Bunker Hill and Lexington course through 

my veins like fire ; 



I 



THE WIDOW OF WORCESTER. 259 

Till, as lightnings cease when breaks the dark 

cloud's heart upon the land, 
I wept, when, on my thin gray locks, I felt 

Frank's manly hand, 
And saw my grandsire's musket gleam within 

his clenched grip, 
And read the clear and stern gray eye that 

chid his quivering lip ; 
Read that the eye would smile no more, until 

it saw the foe, 
While the lips were loth to shape the words, 

"Dear Mother, I must go." 
So I sealed them with a kiss, dried up my tears, 

and filled his sack, 
And, at dawn, upon his home my only darling 

turned his back. 



From my cheek, at parting, stole his lips to 

whisper in my ear, 
"Do not let my Ruth forget me, though I stay 

away a year." 



260 THE WIDOW OF WOECESTEE. 

Our garden's yield was plenteous, and the 

meadow filled the mow, 
And Ruth came over twice a day, to milk the 

brindled cow. 
The rye that Frank had sown sprang up, and 

turned from green to gold, 
But a stranger's flail within the barn, its owner's 

absence told ; 
Whilst the hireling reaped the grain, I shuddering 

thought, but held my breath, 
How busy in Virginia were the reaping-hooks 

of death ! 
Thus the troubled summer sped; our note of 

time the weekly cheer 
Of his letters; and Ave kissed the one that 

numbered half a year. 



Yesterday, I heard our boys had crossed the 

broad Potomac's flow ; 
Ruth was reading of the streams where Babel's 

weeping willows grow, 



I 



THE WIDOW OF WORCESTER. 261 

"When I saw a clove perch on the wire which 

flashes by our gate 
Words of gladness or of sorrow for the people 

and the State. 
On that lightning cord, the South wind sighed 

a sad Eolian moan ; 
And my heart grew sick, on looking up, to see 

the bird had flown ! 



Neighbors say there's been a battle, and that 

we have lost again; 
Was that dove my poor boy's Spirit ? Is his 

name amono- the slain ? 



tyizam Augustus Cranston. 

Died Nov. 13th, 1861, aged 21 years. 

"Thy son is sick," the lightning said, 
And to his side the father sped ; 
But when he reached his darling's bed, 
The bolt had fallen — the boy was dead ! 

What matters how or when he died? 
What grace with virtue in him vied ? 
In ashes lies the father's pride, 
Who nought to live for hath beside. 

As nature kindly deadens pain, 
Ere soul and pulse are rent in twain, 
Such lessons teach us joy is vain 
Till we the blessed mansions gain. 






HIE AM AUGUSTUS CRANSTON. 263 

And with less dread we view the end 
To which our earthly wanderings tend; 
Nay, learn in prayer the knee to bend 
To God, our Father and our Friend. 



To Louisa Ward Terry. 



Penultimate. 



Shall I sit and wait for Death, 
With a sigh at every breath 
For the hours of gladness flown, 
From the Present drear and lone ? 
Sit, abandoning all hope 
Of a brighter horoscope ? 
Sit, as in a skiff that glides 
Down some rapid's angry tides ? 
Sit, nor strike a valiant oar 
To regain the rugged shore? 



PENULTIMATE. 265 

Yes ! I 'm weary of the fight ; 
Aj ax-like, my smitten sight 
Findeth neither in the day 
IsTor the night, a cheering ray; 
Though the shore by which I glide 
Is my native river-side. 
And the hamlets that arise 
Wear the old familiar guise ; 
Though yon steeple points the road 
Pious forefathers have trode. 

In the Church, another Yoice 
Bids the kneeling fold rejoice. 
In the Hall, another Squire 
Sits before the yule-log fire; 
All are strangers, — why should I 
Midst them tarry, but to die ? 



12 



To John IVard, 
The honored Patriarch of the New York Stock Exchange. 



0ub ©egminc jFagi. 

You marvel I should bid farewell 

To cities and to men — 
At fifty — and contented dwell 

Within this lonely glen. 



Long be it ere afflictions give 
Tour undimmed faith the lie, 

And teach you it is hard to live 
Where those you cherish die! 



i 



SUB TEGMINE FAGI. 267 

While here I draw, with every breath, 

Of life a balmy share, 
Tour city seems the haunt of death 

When to it I repair. 



So many of its palaces 

Are sepulchres for me, 
Of those who shared a happiness 

That never more shall be; 



That when my footsteps pause beside 
Some old friend's dwelling-place, 

A gravestone seems the door, once wide 
With welcoming embrace. 



And e'en the living few, of all 
My comrades I yet meet, 

Seem tottering to a funeral, 
Along the callous street. 



68 SUB TEGMINE FAGI. 

Afar from walls in mourning hung, 
And mutes so nigh the tomb, 

These forests seem forever young, 
These fields dispel my gloom! 



I cannot tell the birds apart 

Which in my beeches sing, 
From those which, last year, taught my heart 

To beat in tune with Spring. 



The self-same squirrel seems to trip 
From branch to branch in glee, 

That I beheld, last summer, skip 
About the self-same tree. 



The night-hawks, at the close of day, 

The owl to supper call ; 
The cricket chirps his roundelay 

Beneath my chimney-wall; 



ll 



SUB TEGMmE FAGI. 



269 



And thus it is, I bid farewell 
To cities and to men — 

At fifty — and contented dwell 
Within this lonely glen ! 




©I)c Poefs boke. 

When the Nightingale's carol is over, 
And the widow'd rose pines for her lover, 

Fall his feathers like leaves at her feet ; 
But when age dulls the voice of the singer, 
In his heart-strings its echoes still linger, 

And his spirit sighs strains yet more sweet. 



Like a Nightingale, dying in glory, 
Malibran, queen of musical story, 

Expired with a trill in her throat ; 
Yet her genius, the million to capture, 
Has left not a throb of the rapture 

With which they once welcomed her note. 



ii 



THE POETS VOICE. 



271 



But the voice of the Poet immortal 
Throws open the heart's golden portal, 

Long after his lips close in Death. 
With its music still tremble his pages, 
And the echoes of far-distant ages 

Shall sigh their response to his breath. 





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